Last night Nana and I went to the Red Sox vs. Angels game at Fenway Park. According to 96-year-old Ruth, our seats were along the first base line. In reality they were way out in right field. But for a price of zero dollars, I’d take Red Sox seats behind a fat guy challenging another fat guy to a hot dog eating contest. (Please don’t actually tempt me with this offer because I don’t know that I would actually follow through.)
Here are the highlights of the night….
Nana: “Do you know who’s pitching tonight?”
Lisa: “Actually I don’t. Who?”
Nana: “Dike-a-sake.”
Nana: “Is that Ortiz? Oooh, I hope he strikes a homerun!”
Nana (to the 115-pound college girl in front of us who dined on two meager slices of Papa Gino’s): “You ate too much pizza!”
Nana (to the same girl earlier in the game): “Can you scrunch down a bit? I can’t see.”
A beachball came our way during the 5th inning or so and miraculously landed in Nana’s lap. I told her to pick it up and hit it. So she took the ball and, with all her might (which isn’t a lot), pegged a guy sitting two rows in front of us right in the back of the head. So he took the ball and jokingly turned around and pretended like he was going to nail her in the face with it. I think that kinda scared her because she put her arms up in defense. The man then realized that he could possibly be responsible for an old woman having a heart attack and apologized profusely saying he didn’t really mean it. I told him that while maybe he was joking, she surely wasn’t and meant to hit him.
Then, when we were trying to find the bus after the game, I’m pretty sure I made Nana walk around the entire perimeter of Fenway Park. Probably not the best idea in the world, but I told her that at least she wouldn’t have to go to the gym the next day (and yes, she actually does go to the gym).
So while the Red Sox lost 7-5 to a team with a guy named Figgins, I certainly can’t complain about a lack of entertainment or fun.
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