By Dan Allsup
The calendar has flipped enough times
and my annual trip to a live MLB game has come.
I glance at my ticket for the thirteenth time,
it has been sweat-fashioned into a semi-circle.
The ticket-handler absorbs my ticket and
fires a red ray of light towards uneven lines.
The calendar has flipped enough times
and my annual trip to a live MLB game has come.
I glance at my ticket for the thirteenth time,
it has been sweat-fashioned into a semi-circle.
The ticket-handler absorbs my ticket and
fires a red ray of light towards uneven lines.
The cold, steel turnstile acknowledges
my presence and allows me passage.
That moment lasted much longer in my mind, the
irrational thought that my ticket was a counterfeit
played through my mind two and half times before
I was alarmed by the 'ba-ding' the scanner rang out.
The noise startled me and confirmed my suspicions
that my ticket was indeed a dud, even though I knew
it wasn't. The old man looking a thousand miles
past me, waved me through the pearly gates as he
returned my ticket to hand, for me to inspect a
fourteenth time. Yep, correct date, time, stadium, and teams.
I quickly navigate to section thirty-nine.
Twenty more steps through the damp, shadowy half-tunnel
will expose an awesome panoramic view of
the field, inner-stadium, and more ads than I care to count.
I saturate myself in the moment at the tip of the tunnel,
longer than my fellow section-mates, who awkwardly
maneuver the statue that I am emulating.
I am not satisfied with the truncated moment, I side-step
and aim my phone for a picture that will unsatisfactorily
capture the moment. I swiftly snap two more pictures, slide the
phone back into its original placement in my pocket.
I cautiously judge the familiar, yet, oddly distanced steps.
Friendly faces warmly welcome, stories are swapped,
innings quickly pass and I reflect on how much
I am enjoying my company of those who share
enough common threads, that three hours seem short.
My mind wanders to the joke I think is funnier than it is,
and I tell whenever it applies: "I only come home for the
holidays- Christmas, Thanksgiving and Opening Day."
Dan Allsup is a staff writer for Shutdown Inning. You can reach him on Twitter @DanAllsup.
my presence and allows me passage.
That moment lasted much longer in my mind, the
irrational thought that my ticket was a counterfeit
played through my mind two and half times before
I was alarmed by the 'ba-ding' the scanner rang out.
The noise startled me and confirmed my suspicions
that my ticket was indeed a dud, even though I knew
it wasn't. The old man looking a thousand miles
past me, waved me through the pearly gates as he
returned my ticket to hand, for me to inspect a
fourteenth time. Yep, correct date, time, stadium, and teams.
I quickly navigate to section thirty-nine.
Twenty more steps through the damp, shadowy half-tunnel
will expose an awesome panoramic view of
the field, inner-stadium, and more ads than I care to count.
I saturate myself in the moment at the tip of the tunnel,
longer than my fellow section-mates, who awkwardly
maneuver the statue that I am emulating.
I am not satisfied with the truncated moment, I side-step
and aim my phone for a picture that will unsatisfactorily
capture the moment. I swiftly snap two more pictures, slide the
phone back into its original placement in my pocket.
I cautiously judge the familiar, yet, oddly distanced steps.
Friendly faces warmly welcome, stories are swapped,
innings quickly pass and I reflect on how much
I am enjoying my company of those who share
enough common threads, that three hours seem short.
My mind wanders to the joke I think is funnier than it is,
and I tell whenever it applies: "I only come home for the
holidays- Christmas, Thanksgiving and Opening Day."
Dan Allsup is a staff writer for Shutdown Inning. You can reach him on Twitter @DanAllsup.
