Diary Of An Ignoramus: A Day At The Ballpark
I suppose this story begins with The Tori Couch and The Barry Lewis discussing, by way of a communal text thread, some dude named Eddie Lampkin, Jr., who was evidently spotted at Lupton Stadium wearing a Texas Tech jersey--which offended some group of naysayers, for a reason whose cause I'm at a loss to apprehend.
Now, this being my second season with KillerFrogs as a writer, observing any game my superiors are foolish enough to entrust me with, I recognized the name "Lupton," but I could not quite place it. Fearful of betraying the truth of my pseudonym too strongly, I Googled Lupton prior to asking the inevitable question that would accomplish nothing to my satisfaction more than The Lewis slapping his forehead raw. But upon typing Lupton in the search engine and pressing "enter" I was directed to a high school, called Fort Lupton, and I could not imagine Eddie Lampkin or any other member of the TCU men's basketball team voluntarily spending their free time at a high school--barring blackmail and bribery.
So I asked the question.
"What is Lupton again?"
There was no answer, except that of The Derek Lytle: "A brand of iced tea. Particularly good when sweetened with lemon."
"Thank you very much wise ass, but I doubt Eddie Lampkin could fit at the bottom of a tea cup. And when I search it only sends me to a high school called Fort Lupton."
Again, no answer, until Tori Couch threw me a line: "Lupton Stadium, where the baseball team plays."
"That's right!" I wrote/shouted. "I knew it was familiar."
And, naturally, weary of entertaining an ignoramus, the thread went on its merry way, tying knots around my brain with casually dropped names of players I've never heard of, statistics lacking sense, rules lacking reason, and all kinds of invented diction that leads me to believe my purple counterparts each possess a vocabulary rivaling that of the Bard--or they're simply putting me on.
Cut ahead two weeks and it is time. Spring is here, the weather reliably warm. Alleviated from gainful employment due to a misunderstanding involving a customer, an order, and what I politely as possible suggested she could do with it, and not yet having found another employer possessed of the wisdom to hire a poet whose sense of metaphor includes all manner of orifices and where tacos may be safely lodged therein, I had the day off, as I've had every day since the unfortunate incident almost a year ago.
Game started at 6:30. We were playing Kansas or Kansas State--I'm still confused as to the difference, except that one of them owes me money for sporting our patented purple without permission. We were playing the blue one.
But first there was parking, by no means a simple feat, in which I spent the better part of an hour looking for a good space--close enough I didn't have to break a sweat while walking, but far enough I didn't have to worry about parking tickets/bootings/towings/fees.
In short, I found a perfectly adequate place in Parker County.
Cut ahead an hour and I'm tired and hungry. My dress shirt smells like a jersey in Porky's. The game is in the second half of the third period.
At which point, I ordered a chicken tender basket. I found a spot beside The Barry Lewis (who probably thinks that his generosity of purchasing the ticket for me qualifies as the behavior of a gentlemen, but this is false. For one, I had to figure out the text link and Apple Wallet and button thing the lady required for approval, all of which cost me enough frustration and time I was willing to forego the ticket altogether. For two, he still owes me money from football season for all the money I won him on betting games, money that significantly outweighs the price of the ticket) who was polite as ever.
"What in God's name did I do to deserve this?"
"Deserve what, Barry?"
"You're here, aren't you?"
"If I'm not, the other person is doing a hell of a job as he has me as fooled as you."
"Why are you here?"
"You sent me a ticket didn't you!"
"Good God that was supposed to go to Ian. How'd you get it?"
"It showed up in my phone."
"Damn it!"
"Condolences, Barry. If it makes you feel better, it took me thirty minutes to figure it out and then when the lady at the gate finally did she filled my ear with all matters of foul abuse and speaking of which you owe me, if my calculations are correct, about six thousand five hundred--"
"Just eat your chicken tenders and don't say a word the whole game."
"Sure thing, Barry!"
"I mean it. Not a word. The whole game!"
"Cool. Can we talk about winnings from the pot whatever it was?"
"No. Eat your tenders."
I was willing to compromise with the Ol Barry Lewis, but about three bites into my chicken, I noticed it was a little too juicy for my taste. I looked at the half-gnawed chicken tender before me and noticed a shred of meat among the white that was cement gray and had the texture of chewed gum.
"I don't wanna," I said, showing. "Barry, this thing still has wings. I'm not at all certain I won't bite into its beak."
A smile his face modeled off Pennywise the clown curled across his face. "Looks just like you."
"Eat dirt, Barry."
"I tell you what, so that you don't have to annoy me and I don't have to listen to you, why don't you go grab a bingo card. Maybe you can go home with a prize."
"Barry, I could think of no better prize than your company . . ."
"How sweet."
" . . . and the few thousand you owe me."
"How typical. Go now."
Now, I've not played bingo since I was a kid, and I'm not at all familiar with the rules of that geriatric pastime--never mind that the squares included a vocabulary that would have induced James Joyce to scratch his parted head. Among other arcana were included: balk, attempted bunt, infield fly, WP, double play, run the cycle, etc. And between trying to remember the rules of bingo as they've lain dormant in my brain for the last thirty years, and studying the big words that brought me so much misery, I had little chance to watch the game so as to know whether any of the words I did not know were being accomplished on the field. And I began to suspect that was very much the point, after setting aside my chicken tenders, fearing the onset of salmonella, mumbling curses under my breath, I noticed the Barry Lewis looking at me with what I can only describe as the most shameless diabolical satisfaction.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Don't spoil it for me. Keep playing with your card."
"What period are we in?"
"Bottom of the eighth."
"Oh yeah, wise guy, well watch this."
At which point I randomly drew a check beside each box, five in a row, and marched up to the booth where the lady was advertising a gift that would no doubt fall far short of the money The Barry Lewis owed me.
"Do I have a bingo?"
"It appears you do."
"Well, that's a relief. What are you offering?"
"But the winner was called a half hour ago."
"You're putting me on."
"Afraid not. But you can feel better about this. We just won."
"And what's in that for me?"
"Team spirit?"
"Thank you, ma'am. Thank you very much."
At which point I made my way back to Parker County, holding my stomach the whole way. The vomiting started about five miles west of Weatherford. I've not been able to keep a thing down since.
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