Minor Success
A good day for a game.
And ordinary things, like taking Puck to the Coinstar at Dierberg’s with a red tupperware of change. Two fives, two nickels, and four shiny pennies rattled out of the machine. Puck felt kin to a king, so:
Target. Lego aisle. Minecraft aisle. The three-in-one Lego race car won out. Mostly because it was orange I think. Picked up a box of tasteless cheese sandwich crackers for the game and a nail clippers because the last pair had been misplaced and Puck needed one badly. Of course I found the missing pair literally as soon as I walked back in the door.
So the boys did boy things at home while I drove off to seek more adrenaline in the city.
Busch Stadium.
Well, close. When I drove Irish and her Old Church buddy down two hours early to wait for free Yadi jerseys at the door, I didn’t think the lines would be too long yet. Wrong. Wrapped in every direction off every gate, spiraling back thousands deep into the city.
When we finally made it through the gates over half an hour later, Yadi jersey in hand – which was fast, considering – took in a little BP down by the field. Pirates style. Sure, it’s fun watching anyone hit baseballs into the stands, but obviously not nearly as interesting when performed in black and yellow uniforms.
By the fourth inning we knew it was going to be a troublesome game. Sure, the stands roared every time Yadi even suggested entering the field. And I’m sure he appreciated it. But shouting and screaming a team into scoring doesn’t always work. Not even in St. Louis.
We left a chilly ballpark two innings early – scandal! – because the girls had to be in Cottleville for a play at seven. It was still fun of course. However, when I explained later to my boys that my winning-games-attendance-percentage had declined from the high 80s to the low 70s this year, Puck filled me in on some new facts:
“Mom. The 70s to the 80s is about as close as a bird who didn’t have any wings.”
Informed.
When we rolled back in, Carrie and Rose were plastered to the couches, recovering from another bridal shower. Actually, they agreed it was the best shower to date: no games.
Dad ordered Cecil Whittaker’s, which Francis carted in for a ring of discussion in the living room about everything of recent relevancy, and non-relevancy. Including the disaster of babysitting in the 90’s. This mutually hated activity, amongst we three oldest sisters, continues to live in infamy well into our adult years.