The Brewer Game

I went to a Brewer’s game over the weekend. The FA picked me up, we got a case of beer on the way to the park, and we had a fucking blast. (I won’t even get in to the FA’s lack of driving abilities or his downright awful taste in music. At one point during our ride to the park I mentioned that one of his favorite bands, Lincoln Park, wouldn’t be a bad selection. I had to mention it four more times before he turned the new P. Diddy song off and put Lincoln Park on. And I shouldn’t really complain about the FA’s driving abilities because, well, he drove. But I will tell you I had my eyes closed for a good portion of the trip.)

We got to the game at 6:15. This left us with 45 minutes till the game started. I had eight beers in 45 minutes. That’s roughly a beer every five and a half minutes. While those of you at home might cringe at the thought of this, I am pretty fucking proud. And it’s not the fact that it was eight beers but more that it was eight twelve ounce cans of liquid beverages. Eight beers won’t do much to me even if I do consume them in a mere 45 minutes. 96 ounces of liquid of any kind isn’t exactly an easy task to swallow in 45 minutes.

We made it in to the park just before tip off (I’m not sure what the call tip off in baseball, opening pitch?). Standing in line for food the lights went off behind the kind sir who was getting our food. Every vendor took their hats off and waited while the national anthem was being played. I looked over at the FA who also had his hat off and was exposing his horrible hat head. Not a pleasant sight to see, I tried to put a little distance in between us. But the guy was nice enough to buy me a brat and a pretzel so I had to be kind of nice back.

We found our seats and dug into our food. At one point the FA looked over at me and asked where my brat was. Gone. We sipped at our sodas to the point where we could mix the 10 ounce bottle of Southern Comfort I snuck into the park. When we walked in some old guy had a flashlight or metal detector in his hand and looked at my bulging pocket and didn’t say a word. Either he didn’t give a shit and didn’t care or he didn’t see the bottle, I’m not sure. The FA poured the drinks right there at our seats since I’m too much of a pussy to do something like that out in the open and he wouldn’t trust me to go to the restroom and pour it myself. The last time we did that somehow the whole bottle ended up going in my drink and the FA angrily through the bottle back at me under the bathroom stall wall, skidding three or four stalls past mine.

After we had finished eating one of the isle vendors walked by. “One dollar hot dogs!” I don’t know if it was a retro night because the Brewer’s were wearing their old uniforms or what, but $1 hot dogs are good in my book. After having the brat and pretzel I had five $1 slightly undercooked hot dogs. Southern Comfort and Coke, cheap food, watching a ball game, I was in heaven.

We chatted with the couple in front of us, a 25 year old guy and his noticeably younger female friend. We kept on giving them shit that she was underage (under 21, not 18) and how they have sex with her in her girl scout uniform. They were pretty cool but I almost puked up my five hot dogs with their way too frequent displays of affection.

The FA and I made our way over to the 300 Club. I guess the 300 Club is some semi private bar/dining area that we needed passes to get in to. Along with the free game tickets the FA had acquired four of these passes. Strutting like VIPs to the 300 Club we scoped out possible women to take with us. We bumped into three girls and chatted for a good five minutes before they went their own way. The talkative one was pretty damn hot. Midway through the conversation she asked how old we were. She was with her two friends, one of whom just had her 18th birthday and was sucking down a beer (huh?). Knowing that they were much younger I sheepishly told them that I was thirty. “Thirty is sexy.” While her comment was reassuring and all, the fact that she categorized thirty as being sexy bothered me a bit. Kind of like “while thirty is pretty damn fucking old, a thirty year old individual could still be considered sexy.” The FA later pointed out that she said thirty was sexy and didn’t exactly say that I was sexy. Fucker. And she grabbed his ass as we parted ways. Even married guys get more play than I do.

The rest of the game was fairly uneventful. After the game I continued the tailgating (FA was driving) while cars slowly made their way out of the parking lot. A group of people right next to us asked me to take a picture for them. One of the guys gave me the disposable camera and I tried my best to not cut them off at their heads even though I’ve always wanted to do that. And then another woman ran up and gave me her unbelievably huge digital camera. And then I got really nervous. You see, by this time I had consumed eight cans of beer, five ounces of Southern Comfort, and an additional 64 ounces of beer at the game. I held the unbelievably huge camera in my hands like it was my first born child. Somehow, someway, with sweaty hands and all, I managed to take their picture without dropping the camera. The woman seemed to notice my nervousness and slowly took the camera from me with two hands. They offered me a beer and after seeing the FA shake his head looking at his watch I gladly accepted. Come on, I’m not going to pass up free beer.

We left the game and the FA dropped me off at the corner bar. He muttered something about having to get home to his wife and kid and the ball and the chain he has attached to his testicles. I told him thanks for the game and he went on his way. (Actually he stopped at the bar for one beer but we won’t tell his wife that. We’ll keep that our little secret. Wait, I think his wife might read this. Oh dude, he’s fucked.)

On a normal night every head turns to the door when you walk through. This night was no exception, except that instead of “Hey, B to the…” it was “Hey, how was the game?” I grilled the Renter about it on Sunday when we were staining the deck.

Me: So, how did everyone know that I was at the game?

Renter: Christ, if I’m up there and you’re not everyone’s like, “Where’s B to the…? Where’s B to the…?” Twenty people must have asked me where you were.

Yeah, it’s good to be loved. And semi-famous.

The rest of the weekend was pretty normal. For some weird reason I felt ambitious and started staining the deck my dad and I built last summer. I was out there on Saturday, stain and brush in hand, yelling inside to the Renter, telling her how much fun it was. To my surprise she said she’d help if I got her a brush (because only dumb extremely cheap people go to the hardware store and only buy one brush). We went to the store, got some extra brushes, and painted for three hours till our wrists became sore. Saturday we did most of the railings and spindles, Sunday we finished those up and did the main surface of the deck. I thanked her many times and even cooked brats for all her help. And in case you’re wondering, my wrist is ok to perform the necessary daily functions if you know what I mean (mf-ing).

Oh, and that little funk I’ve been in lately? Well, this weekend was funked up!!! Both Saturday and Sunday the first beer was cracked open no later than 1:00 and the first meal being consumed no earlier than 6:00. Since the weekend was fairly nice outside (65 degrees) I spent most of the time sitting on the deck or staining it. Besides what was left of the case from Friday night I picked up a 30 pack of Milwaukee’s Best Light for $12 and I don’t have a whole lot left. My neighbor had some friends over for a fire in his backyard and invited the Renter and I over. We swung by at midnight on Saturday, asked if they wanted anything from Taco Bell, and by the time I got back from Taco Bell and ate I realized that I could neither walk nor talk properly. I know my neighbor and his roommate kind of well. We wave and chit chat once in a while. I don’t know his friends. I didn’t think I could function in a public setting with people I didn’t know. And besides that, he had women over, and we all know that I regularly pee myself if a woman talks to me. But I’m working on getting over that.

In another “I’m really not gay” story, I mooned the gay waiters at the restaurant that is attached to the corner bar. One of them likes me (as in wants me naked) and the other one and I just get along really well. Well, the one slapped my ass. The other got visibly upset because the other touched “his man.” Two gay guys had an argument over me, the straight guy. I kid you not. I must be one hot piece of ass.