Twenty-Eight

Here I was again, three games in three days, short on sleep, low on food (who can remember to eat during pre-post-season madness anyway?), and making arrangements for the musical chairs of five tickets in Section 433 since Carrie was attending a space weather lecture at Wash-U and Mom was joining Dad at the Symphony for “Pirates of the Caribbean” with live soundtrack.

So in the end, it was Rose, Francis, Irish, and a friend who accompanied me on a very mild night in mid-September to witness another battle for October in an already half-crazed city.

Traffic was ridiculous. Sixty minutes from Chesterfield to Forest Park, all because of the balloon glow that is packed out about ten times over every year. The balloon glow where every last imaginable parking spot is already ocupado hours before the “gates” even open.

“I hate traffic more than anything in the world!” Rose declared from the back seat.

To distract from the irritation, Francis turned up baseball music while the girls danced in the back.

Anyway, for all that, we missed the top of the 1st – Lackey shutting down three Reds – part of this time being swallowed up by standing in long lines to pass through the metal detectors. I nudged Francis into the express lane (no bags or purses). Next thing I knew, he was slapping high-fives with a bunch of young guys for choosing the fast lane, or so I thought. Thirty seconds later he ran back over, eyes wide.

“I think I just got myself in trouble! Those guys think I’m a Reds fan!”

Good thing for us we didn’t arrive any later than we did, because they cranked up the fireworks back-to-back in appreciation for the home runs off Randal Grichuk’s and Matt Holliday’s bats. That’s all they would need. It just keeps getting better.

For a super-pumped crowd, the night ended with a shattering round of fireworks launched from the metal roof. Even a handful of earth-shakers in there, just enough to rattle. Not bad, not bad.

And ever onward and upward, gentlemen.