duck-shaped pain

Avocadoes are an obvious choice. They're green, they're sort of slimy, their pulp, when mashed, looks a lot like snot, and turns an alarming shade of black when left by itself too long. They're chock full of calories. They're expensive. And every Mexican restaurant assumes that everyone loves guacamole, so getting a dish where it is not piled on is difficult. [2] Of course, guac-loving people who eat with me are ecstatic, because I will gladly give them all of mine, as long as I don't have to touch it.

Baseball, obviously, does not turn scary colors when no one is watching. But it is sort of boring, if you have no idea what is going on. Watching it on TV is sort of excruciating -- when I'm looking at the box, I expect a plot, dammit, not a lot of people just sort of standing around. It has no spectacular injuries [3], no overgrown men whose entire job it is to injure other overgrown men's knees. Baseball is also responsible for baseball hats, which means it is also responsible for people who wear them backwards and balding men who wear them constantly so that people won't notice the ever-spreading spot taking control of their heads

However, I've always figured that watching a game in person would be a lot more exciting than on TV (or, for chrissake, listening to people talk about a game). So there was some leeway there for redemption (avocadoes, however, have no hope).

So when M. offered to take me to a baseball game while he was in the state, I agreed. It would be a good way to sit on my ass for four hours and call it an "activity." It would be something I've never done before, and I'm always up for that, unless it involves paintball or going to law school or something like that. Plus, there would be beer. So the plan was made.

It was, more or less, an adventure. It involved me venturing into that part of downtown Denver, the part that me and my ilk usually go out of our way to avoid. Not because it's sticky or dangerous or anything, but because it's usually full of assholes. Assholes with big cars and an enlarged sense of personal space (which includes the personal space of any women nearby). And it has a Hooters. [4] And parking costs an arm and a leg (which means we parked far, far away and walked).

We managed to get our tickets and find our seats. I was no help. It's strange to be completely lost in a city I lived in for a long time. But I was. M., however, was a veteral of many ballparks, so, despite never stepping food in Coors Field previous to that moment, he found where we needed to be.

Where we needed to be was right in the sun. On a hot, hot day. Thank ghu for sunglasses and sunscreen. Both of us are really, really white -- typical Irish-American shades of pale -- and we needed all the protection we could get.

We obtained beverages. Like lame people, we got water instead of beer. It was just too hot at that point to even let the idea of a beer pass our mind. Later, when it cooled down, the idea of spending $5.25 for a Coors Light just felt like a betrayal of all that is good and holy about beer.

M. offered to explain the rules of the game to me, but once they started playing, the rules that I had drilled in me by years of gym glass came back, and I didn't have any real problem figuring out what was going on. I was pretty fascinated by the scorecard that M. was filling out �Ethe little symbols and marks he made to designate what was going on out in the field looked like little baseball runes to me.

So, my conclusion: baseball is more interesting in person than on TV. Not because that much more happens when you're there at the game, but because when the game is slow or between innings, you can drink beer (which we would have done if better beer was available), you can watch planes in the sky, and you can relate to and make fun of your fellow game-goers. Plus, being outside counts as doing something, whereas staying inside on the couch is just sad. I had a good time. I did not buy a cap, though. One: I would have no idea what to do with it. Two: I have the biggest head in existence. No hats fit me.

Post-game we were hungry. Since most of the places downtown open at that hour were either marketed to assholes or were certain to be a zoo, I suggested that we flee downtown. I took M. to Pete's, where we ate gyros and marveled at the magic rotating spit of meat.

[1] With cantaloupe running a close third.

[2] My co-worker A. is allergic to avocadoes, so between me and her, we have what we've both dreamed of for ages: a completely avocado-free workplace.

[3] I could be completely wrong on that count. However, the x-ray room at my orthopedic surgeon's office isn't plastered with Great X-Rays of the NFL posters for nothing.

[4] Had I lived in Denver earlier than I did (pre-1995), I could have complained about the supposed "good old days," back when this part of downtown contained nothing but bums and art galleries. But part of me tries to at least be authentic, and I recognized that I had no basis on which to make such a claim. Such claims are always annoying, anyway.

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