The summer is slipping away and I’ve only gone to one game with my nine year old grandson. He’s still at the age where a question, “Do you want to…?” gets an “okay” before you finish asking so off we went to an Indians game.
Great night for a game, pretty good seats and a pretty good game. We saw two Indians home runs, two double plays and a sensational catch in right field. We also saw the hot dog, peanut, cotton candy, Cracker Jack, pop and pop corn vendors. We went for the lemonade and pop corn.
After an infield popup went sky high I began a lecture on the infield fly rule which brought the question, “can I get cotton candy?”
“No, too sticky.”
He asked me about going to games when I was a boy so I told him about how there were times when the grounds crew had to shoo away dinosaurs from the pitchers mound but that only brought the response, “why can’t I have cotton candy?”
During the seventh inning stretch everyone in the stadium, except the communist couple sitting a couple of rows in front of us, stood and sang, “Take me out to the ballgame” and then settled in to watch the last two innings when most of the vendors disappear. This is where a wise grandparent says, “Let me know if you see the cotton candy guy again.”
In the top of the ninth, with the Indians leading by three runs, the crowd was on its feet with two outs and two strikes and let go a roar at a called third strike which brought a couple of fireworks shots, “WE WIN” on the scoreboard and the song, “Cleveland Rocks”.
“Fans, the totals on the scoreboard are correct. The Indians thank you for attending” and we walked down the stairs and waddled with the crowd through the concourse. When we turned to walk out the gate the attendant standing there who has had a stone face since the adoption of the designated hitter rule smiled as my grandson reached out and took my hand.
I like baseball. Isn’t it great?