Another One Before We Pack

One last game for the five of us. Patchwork skies in gray, blue, and white. Rose saved us “seats” behind the yellow line while her three sisters huddled tight by the dugout, even more crowded and pinched than the other games. Probably because Adam Wainwright was out on the field already, warming up. I still imagine the players’ dialogue going down something like this:

“Dude, it’s your turn to go out there first.”

“No, man, I did it yesterday.”

“You’re on autograph duty though.”

“Seriously, man, there is no way I’m going to do autograph duty for you. It’s your turn.”

Hypothetical, yes, but probable? Likely. Anyway, Irish had apparently met her autograph quota for the week anyway, because they were all repeats. Neither did she get a chance to yell out to Joe Kelly:

“Hey, Shakira, Jr.!” as she had planned.

The game was starting. All girls standing up behind home plate, until Rose decided to buy a ball cap at the Team Store. While she was at it, she added a sparkly silver keychain for Carrie and a toothbrush for me. Now I think I finally have every base covered; no pun intended.

Another fast game, a little spitting rain, a good win. A few seats three or four rows back from the plate for the last inning, handed over by Dennis, the same usher who found me a seat on Wednesday. 17 years he had worked that section, his wife told me, ever since the stadium opened. I hoped for him 17 more. And that was the end of the games. Spring Training games, at least. Irish and I were already slotted for April 9th back home.

We stopped by for groceries on the way back, Rose-groceries: contact solution, Baby Bel cheeses, and Mini Chewy Sweetarts.

Sprawled out for an hour or more back at the motel, a few of the girls napping.

We finally made it to Nick’s Tomatoe Pie for dinner, sharing three “pies” while Rose explained her secret personal life to us at the table:

“Yes, Mom. I’m actually a pirate. In the Arctic.”

“Yes,” Carrie agreed. “She’s a skanky pirate and dances for the scientists in the Arctic.”

“I do.”

“Don’t tell Dad. It’d break his heart.”

And then of course Rose went on to describe the expiration of the snail larvae, or whatever, that had freckled her hands and feet from the ocean during the week:

“I can feel it when they die. They do their death squiggle. I will play a little violin for them.”