the Beer Fast
April 3rd, 2006 | by jg3 |It was early September and it was hot. It was Friday. The Nationals were in town and I was not on call. I put out the call that I was going to head down to RFK after I was done working a shift at the zoo and buy a ticket for the cheap seats anyone and everyone was invited to join in. After all, it was a summer night and that seemed to be what needed doing. Matt called and he was interested in going, Boo was also going to be there but she was going to Metro down to the stadium and arrive just before 7:05 gametime. Matt left me a message while I was on monkey-duty saying he would meet me at Atomic down the street just after my shift. I arrived in the dungeon that is Atomic Billiards at about 5:15 and enjoyed a tall glass of icewater after standing in the muggy evening heat for hours. Matt wasn’t there yet and we had plenty of time before the game, so I figured I would have a beer while I waited. Around 5:30 he arrived and seeing my draught nearly empty decided to order another and one for himself as he unwound from office-mode to baseball-mode. After that, we made our way through traffic to Matt’s super-secret protected parking space a couple blocks from the stadium and walked about five blocks to the ballpark. After getting tickets for the cheap seats we made our way over to the designated meeting spot and waited for Boo. In only about eight seconds she arrived and we went inside as the national anthem was playing. Thinking that we would be sitting up where no beer-man would lug his burden, I bought a bottle of swill just before we ventured out into the seating bowl. As we emerged into the lights of the arena we looked at our tickets, looked at the wealth of empty seats, and Matt pointed at the front row of the upper deck and said, “let’s go sit down there. If they tell us to move we will but until then — hey, good seats!” So we settled into section 431, row 1, seats 1,2, and 3.
In the second inning the Nats fell behind and Matt grew hungry so he went for hot dogs and — you guessed it — more beer. Another couple of innings and I had to visit the loo and while I was up I got another bottle of beer. Settling down after the seventh inning stretch hoping for another Nationals come-from-behind victory I relaxed with my foot on the wall and leaned back in my seat. It was a beautiful evening. The purple clouds over the stadium gave way to glittering stars and the breeze nudged the flag over the outfield. Plays were made and outs were struck, the game wore on. Maybe I had another beer, maybe two, I don’t really remember, I wasn’t counting. Then I heard it. This time it was clearer and louder than normal — CRACK — the unmistakeable sonic phasing of a wooden bat sending a baseball in your direction. I saw it float high, high in the air, maybe thirty feet above my eye level. Instinctive reaction brought me and everyone in sections 430 and 431 to our feet. We, the proletariat in the upper deck knew that this foul was our ball. Our souvenir, our chance to make an outstanding catch. But as it peaked, the ball lost momentum and stopped travelling toward us. It started to float down, lazily, but still gently arcing right at me. RIGHT AT ME. Not to the person on my left, or a half-step to the right, not over my head or to the person behind me, it was heading directly into my personal space. This ball was flying as if intended for me. “Wow,” flashed through my mind as I saw the red stitches against the white leather. I extended my arms to their full length to meet the flight path of the ball but my reaction time was slow and my my accuracy was poor. The ball smacked my left hand in the hollow part of the wrist which absorbed final bit of momentum and then fell straight down, down, down to the lower deck. Down to those lucky, rich folks in the “good seats”, dashing the dream I was supposed to represent for all the real folks in the upper deck. I immediately realized the gravity of my situation (no pun intended), I realized how I had failed to fulfill the lifelong dream of catching a foul ball on the fly. I also realized it because the ENTIRE population of the upper deck started booing me loudly for failing them. As their representative in hope, I was a complete failure.
I slumped into my chair while the the folks around me still hopefully reached toward the ball. I covered my head with my hand to shield me from the boos and I made an oath not to drink another beer until next baseball season. As I slowly sipped the last few ounces of my last beer I tried to savor the taste. I looked at the bottle and thought how terrible it was that my last sips of beer would be some lousy Miller product. In order to make my promise more reasonable, I offered myself two escapes: if I could catch another foul ball I could reinstate myself and I could take a hiatus from my beer-fast while on International travel (especially to Mexico where you are always told not to drink the water). I attended a few more games and had a couple of foul balls come in my direction but none so close. Eventually the season closed and I prepared myself to endure a long winter of pennance for allowing my buzz to impair my performance. Now over six months after that day the season is about to open and I’m enthusiastic about baseball even just for baseball’s sake. I am waiting for the first pitch in RFK before I have another brewski and I can assure you, I WILL be ready for the next foul ball that comes my way. I may miss the next one too, but if I do I won’t have beer to blame.
Filed under: baseball, Real Life
One Response to “the Beer Fast”
By mijoy on Apr 3, 2006 | Reply
I totally thought you were kidding when you said you were giving it up. Good for you — you’ve given every Christian observing Lent and giving up cookies or cheese or whatnot a run for their money!