A few weeks ago our local minor league baseball team held a mid-summer promotion as a token of thanks for its sponsors. Because I convinced my restaurant to write them a check with a fair number of zeros behind it early in the spring, my invitation arrived in the mail, crisp and sealed, waiting for an RSVP.
The event had its fair share of appeal. Besides FREE food as well as FREE beer (though I was going to have to tap the Rockies or take a ride on the Silver Bullet, which is asking a lot of a manager of a brewery), they were also opening up the batting cage where we could take a few cuts and test our mettle on the same field where the soon-to-be-big-boys play ball. In all honesty, I could have cared less about batting practice- they had me at FREE food and FREE beer (I can stomach anything, after all). My wife, however, a varsity softball player herself, was intrigued. It was a date!
With all the FREE going around, we went ahead and brought along our son. No reason to deprive him of any discount-priced calories or the chance to see mommy crank a foul ball off her wrists, after all.
Dinner went down smooth, as anything does when you are able to lube it up with ballpark chili and chase it with banquet beer. My wife went down to get her name on the better’s list while I stayed put to get my money’s worth before making my own way down to support her efforts in the cage.
I tried to remain inconspicuous as I tried to find a seat, but at 6’4″, 250lbs and a few plastic cups in, incognito is difficult to do, and before I knew it I was recognized and on the list myself.
Damn.
Off to the dugout I went…
To loosen up and stretch…
…and wait for my intro music to play over the PA system before thousands (or tens) of my adoring fans (people patiently waiting their turn) raised to their feet in thunderous anticipation (drank their free beer and ate their free chili burgers and chips).
Let’s just saw I didn’t disappoint.
The first person to greet me at the steps of the dugout was my son. I picked him up and we celebrated my trivial moment with a big hug and kiss, when I looked deep in his eyes and said,
“Hey, buddy, let me put you down. Daddy really needs to pee.”
As luck would have it, there was a restroom at the end of the dugout. While taking care of business, I felt the door to the tight bathroom open into my back where my son peeked around it and let me know he needed to go as well. Suddenly I realized the opportunity had presented itself to allow me to pass along one of life’s great lessons:
“If you want to play in the Big Leagues, son, you must first pee were the Big Leaguer’s peed on their way to The Show.”
