Friday night marked our single, solitary presence at a professional baseball game this summer. We’d planned and talked, but never made it out to Minute Maid Park until just this past Friday, which, I suppose, was technically autumn. I have mixed feelings about that game.
For one thing, the Astros were a little rusty…or unmotivated…or something. And, I understand that the Cinncinati Reds are pretty darn good. Anyway, the Reds were leading 6-1 by the second or third inning. And then my new friends showed up.
Two frat-boy types took the seats next to us and the red-headed one of the pair took up a discussion with me as if he’d been there the whole time. His words slurred a bit and the beer in his plastic cup sloshed a bit, but overall, he was relatively charming. After awhile though, I just wanted to make a clean break, so I turned my head towards my husband and tried to concentrate on the game.
Seconds later, the interesting conversation started.
Minute Maid Park has a train parked at the top of the outfield wall, an engine, connected with a single train car filled with token ‘Minute Maid’ oranges. The train chugs across the wall each time an Astro hits one out of the park (only happened twice at Friday’s game). Anyway, the two dudes next to me started a riveting conversation as to whether or not those were real oranges. This alone had me snickering, but it only got better. When they couldn’t come to an agreement on that question, they explored other options. Maybe they were pumpkins up there, maybe peaches. And then, my favorite, maybe they were mandarin oranges.
I think I was doing rather well with keeping a straight face, but at this point, redhead turned to me and asked if I was hearing all this. I had to admit that I was (my amusement was not so well hidden at this point), but that I most definitely did not want to render an opinion. I don’t know how they resolved this issue, but eventually they drifted away, and my attention was drawn back to the rarely exciting game itself.
And then came the fireworks. You’d expect Friday night fireworks to be average, maybe even ho-hum, but they totally pulled out the stops. It went on…and on…and on. It was longer than the 4th of July display and a rather thrilling end to summer. (I have conveniently forgotten all the smoke that filled the stadium.) It was a good way to spend a Friday night, all in all.
*Explanation of the title: my older son is home sick today and, while reading this post over my shoulder, informed me that it included all letters, except Q and Z. In an attempt to make this post as complete as possible, I have included them in the title. Amazing, huh? And queer.
