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Saturday, in the Ballpark,.... - Blather. Rants. Repeat.
A Møøse once bit my sister ...
Saturday, in the Ballpark,....
Sometimes you just need to get away from It.  For the first Saturday in ages, I didn't set foot in my office, check the weekend mail, or obsess over how behinder I'm getting.  Yes, I did send out one revision of a petition this morning, but that was as far as I went.  It was time to return to my repast- the National Pastime, minor league edition.

The Red Sox AAA affiliate is in town, and they started one of the star Boston pitchers last night on a rehab assignment. I asked my Soxfan friends from Rochester if they were interested, and the timing didn't work out; just as well, since Eleanor and I wound up going out to dinner for the first time in ages, and the game wound up with David Price pitching only two innings and the contest going into extra innings.  But Scott and his son were up to coming in for the afternoon tilt today- no star pitcher, but third baseman Pablo Sandoval was still rehabbing and was expected to be in the lineup.

I love local baseball. Where else can you print tickets at home, just over two hours before gametime, for three seats seven rows up from the visitors' dugout for just over fifty bucks for the lot?  They picked me up, we found a street space, and were in those amazing seats just in time for first pitch.

In the second, Scott and Son headed off for hot dogs and coke. I was off for fancier fare- poutine, a sop to the Blue Jay affiliation (I still hate them divorcing the Mets but it's the second best choice), and a craft beer from a Rochester brewer.  I just needed to make sure the woman in the next row kept her hair out of the gravy (she put it up seconds after this was taken):

Panda, as he's known, played about half the game, including fielding at third and getting a hit.  Here's how close we were to him for most of his time on the infield:

Not sure why he wasn't wearing his Boston 48, but hey, Seaver homages are always welcome.

It was sheer joy sharing a ballgame with a father and his inquisitive son. Among the few good memories I have of my own father are of him answering my endless questions about the game, the rules, the players and such; Eli's inquiries far extended beyond mine in space and time, perhaps because he produced authentic Starfleet identification as soon as we met up:

Midway through the game was the obligatory Chicken Wing race. I don't even pay attention to the winner anymore, being more peeved that Celery Never Wins. Today, alas, was no exception:

Just past the Stretch, we got our final visit from Conehead, a fixture at this ballpark (and others in Western New York), pitching his bargain five-dollar beers with the Conehead Guar-an-tee!  I wasn't driving, so of course:)

"Thirty years of service" to this stadium now in its 30th year- the first of the retro downtown parks now dotting America from Baltimore to Seattle and all building on its success.

Pawtucket broke a 3-3 tie in the top of the ninth, and despite their closer loading the bases, the final out was recorded and the Sox fans went home happy. As did the Mets fan who didn't go for the outcome but the company and the sunshine.  We may meet up again at a Binghamton Bronies game sometime soon, but that will likely be at night.  There's just something magical about baseball in the daytime, surrounded by the friends you know and everyone around you who you don't but with whom you share the baseball bond.

We arrived home safely:)

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