Brought our sandwiches to the historic Fort Marcy Ballpark, found one of Monica's co-workers and settled in. A bit cloudy, a few raindrops spat on us, but meant it was a beautiful temperate night. Ideal for sitting and watching.
It was a great time. Small, small field meant that, oh maybe 25% of the solid hits were home runs. Granted, can't think of the last pro game I watched, but feel there was a lot more stealing, a lot more bases because of pitches into the dirt, and more (attempted) bunts. Things were moving. It was exciting. The last of three nights against the Trinidad Triggers and the Fuego had lost the first two. But going into the 5th, they were up something like 16-5. Which you'd think would mean an easy end to the evening.
Nope. 'Round about 10:15, it was the top of the 9th. The Triggers were up to 15. With two men on base and two outs, the count went to full … and the batter walked. The next batter went to a full count, too. Edge of the seat waiting to see that last strike called.
Our ticket numbers were 59 and 60. It was tough to believe there were that many people in the stands. But they were vocal, loyal. They knew names, they shouted encouragement, they chanted, they passed a hat when the Fuego hit a home run; we might not want to mention, but they jeered the ump (who … I mean … seriously, that was a ball?).
Yeah. A good summer night, unplugged. Our team won.