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Fireworks and Flying Hotdogs
June 25, 2008 - Summer Wallace-Minger
So, now we've got a bunch of icons to do things to the text which I likely will never use. Cool. There's one that says "source," and I don't know what it does, but if I ever have to "source" something, I'll be able to do it. Now, if we could only get rid of the ugly, ugly ragged left on the cutlines.
Anyway, this blog is about going to the ball park, so ....
We went to the ball park.
Not Consol Park, where we could have watched a winning team, but PNC Park to watch the Pirates. The last I heard (and between Lynnellen, Fred on The Copy Desk and my husband, how could I not?) they were under 500. Apparently this is bad.
However, if they should ever start winning, the entire area would lose an easy, cheap source of humor, my husband's long wait and seething at "fair weather fans" would be vindicated and it would make it that much harder to aggravate Fred on The Copy Desk.
So, I guess I don't mind if they continue to suck.
They managed to win against the Toronto Blue Jays, but it took them 12 innings to do it. If there was an opportunity to score, then you could count on the Pirates to screw it up -- to the point of banking the baseball off the opposing pitcher's head and practically right into the glove of the third baseman. Even my husband, who stoutly insists they will be good again -- all evidence to the contrary -- and steadfastly watches every single televised game, couldn't believe it.
However, there were plenty of other things to occupy our attention while my husband, dad and brother discussed the possibilty of the Pirates scratching and clawing their way out of the cellar.
There was the Pirate Parrot ... at least until it started doing some sort of weird hip-thrust that had me clapping my hands over the kids' eyes. I had never thought of a anthromorphic parrot being obscene before.
And there were the Pierogi Races ... only we were in the bathroom -- for the 10th time. Oh, the joys of driving through game traffic with the kids in the backseat chanting "I've got to goooooo!" Or watching my son clutching himself and dangling over his father's shoulder as he hustled him to a parking lot portapotty.
I don't care about the Pierogi Races -- if Jalapeno Hannah isn't winning, then I'm not interested. I think that Parrot cheats, anyway.
My son enjoyed chanting "Let's Go, Bucs!" and "Charge!" Although our section was a little lacking in enthusiasm until the drunk guy in the front row screamed "Come on, you bunch of sissies!" Nothing like a drunken exortation to motivate you to get behind the team.
Then there was the ballpark food -- Primanti's sandwiches and those delicious fries so saturated with grease they are limp. Of course, four sandwiches, two drinks and an admittedly large basket of fries cost me $40. They offered to throw in some cotton candy and Yuengling if I gave them my daughter, but I passed.
Let's not say that PNC Park doesn't give out food -- they got out the hot dog cannons. Now, I'm not too keen on eating a half-smashed hotdog which has been flung hundreds of feet into the air, then scrabbled for by half a dozen fans, but that's just me. My kids were quite anxious to chow down on the flying food.
I had just finished explaining to them that we were sitting in the nose bleed seats -- one row under the press boxes and behind home plate in order to see the fireworks better -- when, just to prove me wrong, a hot dog came winging our way.
It hit my brother smack in the head.
It was the best baseball game ever.
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This is my publisher, Alex. You can see that he doesn't have a knee-length beard, handlebar mustache, sparkly robe or pointy hat. Although the hat might be cool. Make it hard to get through doors, though. Now that you know what he looks like, please refrain from yelling WIZ-AAAAAAARD! at him.