Twelve
Green and rain on a Friday morning, last day of spring. Of course it’s been summer for weeks around here already, but a nice closer to the season.
Puck got down to business with word problems to the tune of the old Ben Hur soundtrack, one of my few personal purchases during high school. Weird kid.
Game number twelve on the season sent us to fifty-dollar seats in Bic Mac Land. We didn’t pay that much; work promotion through El Oso’s company. Of course, he didn’t end up making it anyway. Izzy was turning 21 on Saturday, but had to shoot another wedding that day, so plans changed and El Oso joined him and Theodore to celebrate one night early. This left one open ticket, and Mom offered hers up (in lieu of watching Star Wars IV with Dad and Puck) so that Mr. Ricky could join all four Snicketts sisters at the game. Lucky man.
Anyway, with all the rearranging complete, Carrie-Bri, Irish, and I drove down to our usual parking garage, hoping to make the ceremonial pitches. Grandma’s 101/102 year-old friend (never got the exact number) was tossing one of them, but we missed it.
The stadium was already packed with tens of thousands of eager fans cashing in on free Bob Gibson jerseys. 45s everywhere. It was about this time that we realized our seats were actually in Big Mac Land. Something mildly embarrassing about that. Did get free drawstring backpacks for the kids though. And by kids, I’m including Ricky.
Anyway, right before the boys ran out onto the field: rain tarp. Lucia had called Carrie, warning her about the storm cell. One of those legendary St. Louis pop-ups. We had been hoping for this for awhile. Storm-and-game-in-one. We stayed in our seats for awhile. It was right at that time that Irish ordered another burger and fries. Tried to huddle with it under the seat so the fries wouldn’t get soggy. But after awhile we ditched our spots due to a larger downpour.
Forty-five minutes later, action. Ricky and Rose were late as usual. And the sky was Sistine-Chapel-worthy, all gold and blue. A small commotion distracted from play as well when Big Mac Land started photographing the rainbow spread out over the Arch. I had a glance; baseball going on and all.
Things weren’t going so well halfway through the game, including the loudest boos I had ever heard at Busch directed at the umpiring crew in New York for a perceived blown call. Not to mention an additional sell-out crowd of moths. More moths than I had ever seen. Crowding air space and field space.
About this time Carrie leaned over to me saying, “Remind me never to come to a game with Rose and Ricky again.”
Those two do like to yack. And if they weren’t staring at me after every inning to get my game face reaction, Ricky was explaining the Latino players’ name meanings in the language of his people. By the time he told us that Molina meant “wind turbine,” it was about time to call it a night.