Alas, baseball season is nearly over.
Evenings spent drinking beer, eating peanuts and cheering and cursing at the field have always been a favorite pastime of the husband and myself. I’m even keen on a lively round of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” though halfway through I always find myself lamenting over that I did in fact, forget to buy cracker jacks.
This generally results in a silent, doe eyed plea cast in the hubby’s direction until he heaves a heavy sigh and makes for the concession stand, appeasing his wife and helping himself to a beer for his troubles. It’s win-win, see.
Now, I’m a firm believer in supporting your home team. Paint your faces, wear your jerseys, wave your giant foam fingers until your arm hurts! But…exercise caution if you are a fan in enemy territory. Many a rowdy, brash, drivel for brains rival fans have passed through the gates at Turner Field. The ones that made it out, left with a healthy appreciation for the passion and depth of home town loyalty.
Now, I say this with the utmost innocence. After all, what would a sweet, southern girl such as myself know about devious behavior? I’m as pure as the new fallen snow.
…Until you are a Philly’s fan standing behind me for the better part of an hour, cheering far too loud and far too long for any call that went against my Braves. Then a lady may just have to forget that she is a lady and come to her team’s defense the best way she knows how.
By letting rip a toot-aimed right at the Philly loving little bastards.
Manners be damned!
These are desperate times and call for desperate measures.
The heat that flooded my face after the assault wasn’t me having the grace to feel abashed…it was pride. Pure, unadulterated satisfaction washed over me as I spared a glance over my shoulder and found the enemy in full retreat.
The Braves may have lost that night. But I took home a victory.