Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Mustard no Ketchup
There was a time, not so long ago, that I believed I could raise children blocks from a major league ballpark and never introduce them to hot dogs. Their father thought otherwise. And this summer was the end of my fantasy, dogs every time we walk in the gates. And peanuts, Mary waves down the peanut vendor the minute she sits down (she also tries to flag taxis which is a riot to see). I take solace in knowing we made it until three and they only get dogs at baseball, and there is something to eating a hot dog in the summer while watching the Cubs play, but eek, hot dogs? They love them.
I will admit the dog smell is a good one, and one I associate with baseball. Sometimes when the wind blows north I think I can smell Wrigley dogs on our front porch. There are also times when I think Wrigley smells like green bean casserole, the nemesis of my food personality, so that is disturbing. And I've yet to discover what the GBC smell is, a player grandmother down in the trenches making a big vat of the goo before games perhaps?
Last night was minor league ball at Wrigley with the promise of base running for the 12 and under crowd after the game. We sat through nine titillating innings of minor league ball, the Peoria Chiefs versus the Kane County Cougars, a tie game, the bottom of the 9th...and downpour. And not a little rain, downpour. Wind, blowing rain, crying children, a real mess. And of course, no ending to a well played, albeit boring and long, game of baseball. Our base running became slip and slide...
or the hope of slip and slide, we were sent home, base running dreams unfulfilled.
Kate: We did not get to play ball on the field tonight.
Mary: We were not playing ball, we were base running, totally different.
Maybe next year.