It was the perfect night for baseball.
Sunny, with temperatures in the mid-70s and my family was there.
Oh, yeah. My family. We were at a
baseball game and I’m the only person in my family who likes baseball.
I take that back. I’m the only person
in my family who likes sports. The Boy enjoys watching football with me for the
cheese dip and chili at halftime, but once the food’s gone, so is he. When attending
a sporting event comes up, my wife tells horror stories of childhood baseball
games.
So why aren’t I going alone?
Oh, yeah, the bounce house.
The May 28 St. Joseph Mustangs game
versus the Rossville Rattlers* was “Life’s a Beach Night.” Dollar nachos, $2.50
margaritas, and a bounce house to keep the kids from asking for food between
every pitch. Perfect.
With nachos and enough napkins for
everyone – seriously, everyone in the ballpark. Offutts are messy – we found
our seats just in time for the first pitch.
First
Inning: “Hey,” the Boy said. “She got more nachos than me.”
The Girl, whose eating methods can best
be described as the Pick and Giggle, is always the last person eating. Her
plastic bowl was half full. The Boy’s was empty.
“She didn’t get more than you,” my wife
said. “She just eats slower. Now calm down.”
He stared at his mother for a minute,
looking for any loophole that would lead to more nachos. Situations like this
make me wonder if he’ll go into law.
Second
Inning: The Girl tugged at my wife. “I want to go to the bouncy
house.”
Bottom
of the Second: “What are they doing?” my wife asked.
One of the beautiful things about
having a nine and seven year old is they’re big enough we can parent without standing,
or walking.
“I don’t know,” I said. He’d stood with
his sister by the bounce house for half an inning. I got up to check. It’s not
like I wanted to watch the game or anything.
Third
Inning: “The bounce house costs a dollar,” I told my wife when I
got back to our seats.
“That’s (colorful expletive),” she
said, and got up to complain.
Bottom
of the Third: My wife sat down. “She can bounce all night for free.”
I don’t know what she said or to whom,
and I don’t want to know.
Fourth
Inning: “Can we get peanuts?” the Boy asked.
“Not now,” I said. “I’m trying to watch
the game.”
Fifth
Inning: “Can we get popcorn?” the Boy asked.
“Not now. I’m trying to watch the
game.”
Sixth
Inning: “Do you want to split a chili dog?” my wife asked.
Really? Am I the only one who realizes
there’s a game?
Bottom
of the Sixth: The Girl showed up, her hair matted with sweat. “They told
me I had to take a break from bouncing.”
She complains about family walks yet
can bounce for three innings.
Seventh
Inning: We bought ice cream and went home.
Yep, we lasted until the seventh
inning, which is a record for us. My family was asleep before we hit the
interstate. My goal is to see an entire game one of these days. Maybe.
*Rossville,
I discovered, is a city somewhere in central Kansas. Town motto, “Wheat.”
Jason
Offutt’s latest book, “Across a Corn-Swept Land: An epic beer run through the
Upper Midwest,” is available at amazon.com.
