Buckets of Beer

The vast majority of the games I watched in 2011, I watched sober. I would have a beer from time to time, but driving in strange lands with NJ tags with even one beer on your breath is inadvisable.

But I was heading to the capital of Ohio to see the Clippers play a doubleheader against the Louisville Bats, and my good buddy Jack lives there, and our good friend Sean (may he rest in peace) worked at a place that had seats behind home plate.

“They got beer buckets!”

Okay then, you’re driving.

I don’t remember a lot of details from the game. Not so much because I was very drunk (and I guess I was), but more because I was drunk at a baseball game, in my step-homeland of Ohio (which I love unironically), with two college friends I hadn’t seen IRL in ten-plus years. Also it was June 6th and I had almost 3 months on the road and 60+ games under my belt at that point. And I’m writing this 8 years after the fact. I do know that I don’t have a lot of photos to look at, which was common for games I watched with friends (new and old).

Dontrelle Willis pitched game 1, and I don’t remember that, which is strange because I was really looking forward to seeing him pitch every chance I had, hoping he would rekindle his Major League career. But there he is on my hard drive, D:/Shawn Bradley/2011/Huntingdon Park/whatever.nef (I shoot Nikon raw, nbd).

Here’s what I remember. I got shit on my hand in the bathroom because I was eating garbage on the road for three months and had a wonky gallbladder that I only just recently had taken care of, drank a grip of Miller Lites that Sean and Jack bought me by the bucket, and everything sort of came to a head in the middle innings. Getting shit on your hand in a stadium restroom is awful (not that I recommend trying it anywhere else), because you have to sort everything out without access to sink, unless you want to be like that homeless guy in front of Benny the Bum’s.

The toilet paper was my only tool, and it happens to be the tool that got me into the mess in the first place. At least I was drunk, so I didn’t care too much. But I got myself sorted out enough to clean up at a sink without causing a panic, and nobody’s the wiser. By buddies had no idea.

Jack, if you’re reading this, lol. And Sean, you’re dead now, you jerk, so you’ll never know.

The other thing I remember is the scouts. I suppose they were there to see the D-Train, but who knows. There were more than I would usually see.

The guy toward the right of the above photo, grey hair/white UA polo/earpiece guy, was writing something down when a high pop fly came straight up and back, and bonk!ed right off his bald spot.

If I spoke a real language instead of English, I would have a succinct word or phrase that could neatly sum up how you aren’t supposed to laugh, but it’s funny, and also he thankfully wasn’t injured, so it’s okay to laugh now though you don’t want to laugh too loudly because it’s an asshole thing to do. I guess the closest I can get would be “sorry not sorry.”

Jack, Sean, and I were especially tickled when, after stadium personnel came to check on him (he waved them off, he was fine), they sent down a small nachos. Upon reflection, I suppose he could have ordered them, but it’s way funnier to think the Clippers think of small nachos as a panacea, like Yoohoo was for me as a child.

Thanks for the tickets and the beer, Sean. Sorry I never got to see you again. Fucker.

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Wm. Haines View All →

Writer/Photographer/Red-Ass

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