At least once a year I try to get to Coney Island. And at least once every two years I try to go to a baseball game. Sometimes, these two occasional occurrences coincide. Like two Wednesdays ago. And by "two Wednesdays ago" I might even mean three. I don't have a calendar right here. Anything's possible. (In fact, I might have even gone to this baseball game on a Tuesday or Thursday.)
I had to come straight from work and found everything to be bathed in a twilight glow.
I was several innings late, but Jeff met me at the gate and showed me to our fine seats.
I may have been late, but I did NOT miss the Hot Dog race. So you could say I was right on time.
Walk it off, champ. I'm proud of you, even if you're wearing the absolute wrongest condiment.
Hot Dogs of the people. Don't be overwhelmed by the presence of these decorated and celebrated athletes. Deep inside, they're no different than you or I.
Towards the end of any Cyclones game there is a time that brings the fans to their feet, their hands to the sky, their eyes turned upward, their hopes taking wing and their devotion on full display.
I'm talking about when the cheerleaders throw t-shirts into the crowd.
Since when are there cheerleaders in baseball?
In the final inning was nearly assassinated.
The Cyclones brought a lot of heat and made absolute fools of this clown team from Connecticut that dared face off against our might might half-season single A power.
Game all done, I always enjoy the concourse lights.