The weather at
Monday’s ballgame was nothing short of threatening. I have never seen black-gray clouds billowing
so close overhead the way they were in the fifth inning on Labor Day. Being three rows from the field at Guaranteed
Rate Whatever, we opted for the shelter of the concourse.
The concourse is
connected to a switchback ramp-way that goes from ground level to the upper
deck. There’s a landing leading to the
concourse that I like to look out from; church domes and smokestacks outline
the Bridgeport world of my father in his youth.
After a few minutes of this reverie, I gave my clipboard with scorecard
attached to Michele so I could use the men’s room. Alas, the trough urinals of Comiskey Park are
no more.
I came back to
find my wife and daughter were leaning over a railing of another section of the
landing and looking down. I walked over
and glanced down to see the Tigers’ Victor Martinez hitting in the visitors’
batting cage. Why or how there was an
opening in the roof that let us watch I can’t explain, but it was definitely
neat.
“Clare heard someone
hitting and walked over to here,” Michele explained. Of course.
Surgery was on my daughter’s shoulder, not her ears
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