Tuesday night, the kids and I went to New Comiskey to see the ball game. We had a wonderful time, for the most part. The game was close, the teams played decent ball (especially considering how weak the Sox offense has gotten), and the game was tied going into the ninth, the beer was. . . golden.
One drawback: the row behind us was a birthday group of girls Pippa’s age, who spent the whole first eight and half innings squabbling, shrieking, and slapping one another. We had to cover our years pretty much any time there was the least excuse for noise — or none. The most boisterous among them sat immediately behind me.
In the first inning, she dumped her empty peanut shells down my back.
In the third inning, she splattered her soda all over my back.
In the sixth inning, she whacked one of her neighbors, who shrieked even more.
Nate and I figured they’d tire out rapidly, but they were still squealing strong by the ninth inning. The only thing that silenced them was Dan Uggla’s ninth-inning home run, after which they decided the Sox didn’t have a chance, and the whole row left. Those last five outs were the best part of the game.