For Father’s Day, my dad is hinting that he might maybe want to go to a baseball game. I do not have fond memories of baseball games. I have never caught a fly ball—I have, however, been hit with one.
At this particular game, I went to get breadsticks with my friend Allison. We were laughing about something or other when suddenly we heard screams and we looked up and BAM. The ball bounced off the roof—swarms of people were sprinting towards us like a crazed mob—it hit Allison, whereupon Allison had some kind of spastic fit and all the breadsticks went toppling out of her arms—it bounced onto me and smacked me full in the face—I juggled with it for a moment—and then the ball went flying out of my hands like a bar of soap in the shower. This group of boys converged on it (I dove into the pile and was hit with some flailing arms) and finally a victor emerged. He was this boy who happened to be my neighbor, and he held the ball in the air with a victorious whoop. All the while I was howling, “Nooooooooooooooo!” and beating my fists on the ground in devastation.
We went back to our seats, dejected, and told my parents the whole thrilling tale. My dad was too busy cheering on our team to offer up more than a “Sounds… awful. Bases are loaded! BASES ARE LOADED!”
And my mom? My mom’s only question was, “What happened to the breadsticks?”