Twenty-Three

An hour at the school office involved one call about envelopes, a tardy slip sign-in, a sick-kid call-in, another call about eucalyptus cough drops, and then a 5th grade girl in tears over a bad stomachache.

On that last note, I joined El Oso at Protzel’s deli, as recommended by Gloria, in Clayton. Good corned beef, potato chips, and an apple juice and Reeses on the side.

Then El Oso napped for fifteen minutes in the parking lot at work; I functioned as his alarm clock.

Puck was in a silly mood after school. I think it continues to grow on him. Besides, he got to spend the night at the Big House on a school night while El Oso attended Back-to-School night, and I went to the game with Mom and Carrie-Bri. Pretty sure I got the best end on the parental deal.

It was a breezeless three hours two rows up from left field that evening, Matt Holliday just announced as NL Player of the Week.

Surrounded by a variety of clowns. Including two middle-aged-plus women unashamedly photographing Matt Holliday’s rear end from the row behind us.

“Make sure you get the lighting right,” the older woman croaked.

When the girl sitting in front of me caught the ricocheted ball of a Pirate home run, entire sections began to simultaneously chant,

“THROW IT BACK! THROW IT BACK! THROW IT BACK!”

She stuck it in her purse.

Around this time, Mom started doing the can-can with her fingers on Carrie’s knee, in time with the music, while the kid next to me began stirring vodka into his lemonade.

“Is there a half-time in baseball?” he asked me.

“No … there’s a 7th inning stretch.”

“Oh yeah. I was close, right?”

He was from Miami.

Just about then, a water bottle came hurtling down from the upper deck onto the warning track.

With all this nonsense going on around us, I still somehow managed to concentrate pretty well on the game, and the win. Leading the Central.