Just Bill and the Mister

November 9, 2009

baseball blues

Filed under: Uncategorized — bknister @ 12:29 pm
Tags: , , , ,

The mister is watching a post-season baseball game, the Angels and Yankees.  I think it’s probably better for him than actually going to games.    

He and the missus went to a Tigers game in late September.  After they left, I lay on the kitchen floor, listening, dozing.  But right away I knew when they finally turned the corner onto our block. 

Being a dog and not having much sense of time passing, I never know how long they’ve been gone.  But I know the sound of their two cars.  They’re different from all the other sounds made by the neighbors’ cars, pickup trucks, vans, motorcycles, SUVs, motorized scooters, lawnmowers, weed whackers, edgers, chain saws, leaf blowers and so forth. 

Just before they turn in the drive, I hear the garage door start to open.  How this door knows what I know is a mystery to me.  I see no evidence of dogness to it, but it doesn’t matter, because that sound means they really are back, not just passing in front of the house and going away again (say, back for the bag of ice they paid for but then forgot to take out of the freezer on leaving the market). 

This is when I get up and stand waiting.  When I actually see them walking from the garage, I stand on my hind legs and place my paws on the door.  This way, I’m looking out the window when they come up the stairs.  I’ve come to think these little bits of stage business are important to them, that they like seeing me waiting this way. 

I think they like knowing it matters to me they’ve come back–and it does.  Once they’re inside, I am lavished with praise, and usually get a treat in the bargain.  As with the garage door, I have no idea how this works.  Why having slept for hours makes me worthy of so much attention is another mystery, but I’m not complaining.

The missus drives a Buick, the mister a Dodge van.  The van is what we use to go back and forth to Florida.  The traveling means we’re what’s called snowbirds.  There’s another mystery:  just when the weather starts to get better here in Michigan—cooler, more comfortable—the mister and missus start loading all kinds of things in the van, along with my crate.

I got sidetracked.  That may be a function of my powerful sense of smell.  Every time a really good, new aroma wafts past, I forget whatever I’m doing.  It was bagels this time.  The missus is toasting one.

As I was saying, last month the mister and missus went to a baseball game, at Comerica Park.  That’s where the Tigers play. I see other parks when the mister watches baseball on TV.  Yes, there’s grass in these places, and something like sidewalks.  But unlike MY parks, there are no trees or trash barrels or parking barriers or railroad ties where dogs can post messages.

But OK, if he wants to call it a park, it’s a park.  Really, though, he gets too excited watching sports on TV.  Or politics.  He’d be better off sticking to Law and Order, or reading.    Sometimes, the missus gets mad at him for how he’s acting.  Yelling, pointing.  It’s even worse with the Lions.  That’s a football team here in Michigan.  They won some kind of award or prize last year.  They won it for what the mister called a perfect season in the parallel universe occupied by losers who have gained fame through total failure.

Anyway, I don’t think he had a good time at the game.  He came back smelling annoyed.  He really does like baseball, which he says is the last thing on most people’s minds at Comerica Park.  He said the only athletic feature of the game was getting up and sitting down every two minutes for close to four hours.  He said the people sitting in his row and the one in front of him came to the game only to eat, drink and answer text messages. 

According to the mister, the two men in front of him ate a total of eight hotdogs or bratwursts, two bags of peanuts and two of roasted almonds, a large order of nachos they shared at the beginning as an appetizer, and drank fourteen beers.  He says they tapered off after what’s called the seventh-inning stretch, but closed out the afternoon at the top of the ninth inning with chocolate ice cream bars. 

The mister thinks even more eating and drinking figured on the men’s trips to the toilet and beer stand.  Baseball, according to him, is a slower sport, which means you need to stay alert.  He said it didn’t matter how alert he was, because most of the time he was staring at the back of a Polanco or a Cabrera baseball shirt, what the men in front of him wore to the game. 

But the mister worked hard at not getting angry.  This was because the missus was  enjoying the game.  And also because the two men—for what he says are obvious reasons—were huge.

He also hates all the amplified noise.  He thinks this may stem from the Detroit Tigers being owned by the same man who owns the Detroit Red Wings, a hockey team.  This man bought both teams with money he made selling pizza. 

The Red Wings play their sport at Joe Louis Arena.  It isn’t a park, it’s a big theatre with ice.  The mister says he never goes because it’s so loud.  He thinks the pizza man is now making use of the same behavioral-science techniques at Tigers games—rock music, promotional giveaways, contests, people in uniform being brought out for applause, other people in wheelchairs brought out to be acknowledged for their courage before adversity, flashing statistics accompanied by drums rolls and rim shots (whatever they are). 

None of it is the mister’s thing.  He was glad to get home.

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