Number Nine

With the tornado sirens whirling the monthly test that morning, Puck and I were ready for another day of school and catching up from the weekend.

Halfway through the morning, Puck saw the leftover package of Chewy Chips Ahoy! that Rose had brought over Friday night, sitting on the counter just waiting for eager fingers:

“Can I have a cookie, Mom?”

“No, bud. They’re not good for you.”

“But you’re eating one.”

“I’m just trying to protect you from too much sugar. That’s all. It’s too late for me.”

“Mom! Stop eating them! Just stop! I know they taste good, but they are so bad for you. You should just have one a year. Just give them to Dad instead. He deserves them more than you do. He eats enough food and doesn’t have much sugar, so you should give them to him. You barely eat anything and you have too much sugar. You should just have one cookie a year!”

This kid is going to be a doctor; I can feel it.

Carrie-Bri and I were downtown by 6:30, parking at Ballpark Village in time for the 7:15 game. Another set of tickets in Section 434.

These poor boys were having all kinds of trouble trying to take the division lead, and tonight wouldn’t help.

A shut-out through six innings went pretty well for Shelby Miller at first. We snacked on bottled water a few seats down from “Uncle Rico.” Carrie pointed out all the hipster beards as they meandered around the upper decks. We still don’t understand all the male beard-envy that goes around this city. We’re not Boston. How many times have I heard some random stranger asked El Oso how he manages and grooms his beard? Just last week a woman at church told me:

“I didn’t know you were married to Jason Motte.”

Anyway, the match-up continued with no score for about two hours. Carrie’s cubic zirconia earrings reflected like a disco off my jeans:

“Look,” she pointed it out. “Better cover up these babies. Matt Holliday might start to complain.”

This man has a knack for noticing distractions from the game, including too-bright objects off the field.

So we probably should have taken a clue from Carrie’s 6th sense before the top of the 7th:

“I knew it,” she said, as the Royals scraped in three runs off Miller. “I was starting to feel a little nauseous before this inning. We should have left while things were still good.”

They try, the battered chaps. Four months left on the season. I’m not worried.