Last night was part parking lot carnival, part day care center during lunch time. The mall in front the Metrodome was transformed into a walkway of overpriced beers and fried foods, along with the only place on earth where its socially acceptable to wear your favorite team logo on more then three items of clothing (unfortunately no Twins logo’d G-strings were spoted).
How could such a crowd afford these gatherings on a regular basis? The beers were $6.50, a Mike’s Hard Lemonade for the wife was $7.75 (ouch), bottle of Sprite for the kids set us back four bucks. Throw in some mini-donuts and tepid cheese curds (if it doesn’t squeak, it ain’t real) and we blew thirty bucks before even stepping into upside down vanilla frosting topped bundt cake stadium.
While watching the Tiggers get demolished by the resurgent Twinkies, there was a re-found love of watching live major league baseball. There’s no description about a 92 mph heater smacking the leather bound pillow of a catcher’s mitt after the overpaid free agent third baseman whiffed like he just got denied at the hotel bar after the game by the words “you don’t make as much as him” pointing to his Cy Young award winning teammate with the Cheshire Cat sized smile.
Even if the team wasn’t winning or putting out a product that stank of two week old Japanese steakhouse sauce that was left out, a love for the game I used to play was renewed and new found respect for guys like Aaron Gleeman who cover this sport with the colors it deserves.
I may be a fluffer's assistant on the rung of writers and bloggers alike, but that won't stop a few bad metaphors from appearing here. Thanks for the straight shooting Pauly, you're hitting a new high (perhaps a bad pun) with the WSOP coverage this year and getting stronger in the late innings.