Red Sox Won

I tried hard to be present tonight, so I'd have lots to share. There was a sold out ball game at Fenway Park. Red Sox vs. The Blue Jays. There were people, fans, drinking cheap light beer in flimsy plastic cups, eating foot longs, and pushing past one another. There were lines -- separate lines for alcohol and food. There were full jean pockets bulging, full of small bills, keys, and company ID. There were band-aids stuck to my right knee, covering up the gash I made changing in the bathroom stall. And there were smells ranging from boiled hot dog to cheap cologne. Oh and, getting lost. There was that.

I don't understand baseball. There were moments when I almost did. At least I think I did. After a few cups of Budweiser, surrounded by people doing commentaries, everyone rising to their feet caught up in the winning spirit, and the wave and the noise of the music and the lights and the flickering images telling me who was who and what was what and when I could go home ... I found myself staring at the innings, hoping it would be 9 soon. Because even though I catch a glimpse of what everybody else is feeling, I know in the back of my skull, where the pounding is pooling my brain guts, that it's still a Tuesday night. After all, it's only Tuesday and we all have work tomorrow, and we all need to get in our cars and fight to get to our beds. And I may have possibly missed the point of baseball.

The ticket wasn't wasted. People watching is still a fun past-time for me. I clapped and I chanted with everybody else. I gave it a shot. I took lots of digital photos. Since my boss gave us the tickets, I figure I'll have a couple printed and send them to him in gratitude. Some turned out nice.

For lunch we all went out. The waitress who was passing menus around looked at me in surprise. Out of the 15 people around the table, I was the only female. She said, "Hey, you're the only girl." "Looks like it," I said. And then I went back to studying my menu.

Midnight says it's time for bed.