Popcornivores roam the stadium, little gray-lavender heads bobbing forward presumptuously. They look like they’ve been slicked in dish soap. Indignant cooing and small feathery hurricanes touch down to the ground every so often, snatching up peanut crumbs and melty Dippin’ Dots.
Little circles of penny-shaped gum have been stamped into the ground. A million tennis shoes have rumbled through here, a stampede of light-up sketchers and worn-out mom shoes. Expensive shoes with bright red soles worn by guys who are too old to have their pants half-way to their knees, and the trudging, slow gait of the custodians.
And then there was us.
My dad’s open-toed sandals, my sisters high-top converse in mint, and my own Champion bright blue sneakers. We walked over the gum, past the spills of beer, and kicked away the popcorn for the pigeons as we went to go sit down.
“We can get our hot dogs now, or later,” dad says, allotting Moira and I our one tickets each. “I don’t care when.”
“Later,” I decided. I had already had a piece of pizza before I left. “Okay,” Moira said. We settled into the green slatted seats, and I crossed my ankles on the chair in front of me.
There is a general pandemonium that grips the whole crowd, a sort of roar that grows and grows until that CRACK of a baseball against a bat, and then the fervor fever is broken and the frenzy is set to a dull roar once again.
“Next up, Aflredo Marks!”
“ALFREDO!” I screamed. I had never heard a better name. It seemed like a match made in heaven. “ALFREDO IS BAE!!!!”
My little sister groaned and hid her eyes in her hands, as if she could be embarrassed by such a great sister as I. Nonsense. “Dude. Alfredo Marks. That is fabulous.”
“He’s got a good batting average, too,” my dad said.
“Not too cute though,” I lamented.
“Ugh,” my sister said.
The couple a few seats down from us was getting progressively more drunk as the night wore on.
He wore a black t-shirt with a skull with wings done in gray, and she wore practically nothing. She must have skin made of ice, or is impervious to the cold, because I was freezing and actually had decent clothes on.
He had had at least one beer, I knew, and perhaps he was a lightweight and one was enough. His wife had had at two, and had just returned with a third one (I knew because she announced her intention to crawl over my lap to get to her seat in a screechy loud voice exactly two seconds before she actually did it.) They laughed loudly and obnoxiously, and alluded that they ought to take themselves to a more private place to “get it on.” I wished they would. Then I could just watch this game.
“Let’s go, Pasta Sauce, let’s go!”