I had the good fortune to obtain tickets to game 7 of the ALCS on Sunday. I had the good fortune to get a ride in with my dad, whom I like. We got tickets through some connection with my aunt and the only catch (besides paying for them) was that we had to drop off two tickets (there were four total) to the people who would be our seatmates for the game. No big deal, you're bound to sit next to some jerk anyway, might as well know what you're up against.
Our pals, we'll just say their names were A and B, were at Game On, next to Fenway. This is an establishment where alcoholic beverages are sold, and Sunday I believe most of them were sold to our friends A and B. Needless to say, they were very friendly when we dropped off the tickets. We shared an awkward meeting/exchange and went into the park ahead of them. I purchased two delicious Miller Lites and gave one to my dad. We both drank them and eagerly awaited the start of the game.
A showed up about 1 minute before the first pitch, and was in great spirits. High fives were had by all, and smiles abounded. B was nowhere to be found, and A was calling and texting in a valiant effort to reunite with his buddy. Eventually, B shows up, making lots of friends in our section despite falling all over them in his inebriated walk to his seat. Everyone loves a happy drunk.
The game is fun, lots of cheering in the early innings, the Sox scored a single run in each of the first three frames. Matsuzaka was pitching well (no doubt due to the fact that I was wearing his jersey tshirt) and things were good.
After the third inning, B stops being so animated and jovial, and starts sitting with his head in his lap. He does not look good; in fact, he looks like I'd imagine someone looks when they are seasick. His demeanor and body language begin to alert those in the crowd around us that we may have a vomit situation approaching.
Nobody likes a pukey drunk. There are various words, I wouldn't say of encouragement, but of recommendations that B move on, or at least not contaminate our seating area with his dinner. After a few minutes of nervous observation by most of us in section 95, rows NN-QQ, B stands up (no small feat) and heads for what I assumed was the restroom. The rest of the section, visibly relieved, turned its attention back to the game, where the Sox were busy returning their 3 run lead.
Now A begins behaving unusually. He is either convulsing gently, or crying, or maybe just hiccuping. He is no longer engaged in the game, and while standing, exhibits a gentle swaying behavior typically associated with people at a Yanni concert, or maybe someone who's about to pass out on their feet.
My dad, concerned parent that he always was and will be, asks A if he's ok. A assures us, in slurred speech, that he's fine. Worst lie since Santa Claus. Regardless, A lasts only another 10 minutes or so before he excuses himself by passing through what must have seemed to him to be an impassable gauntlet of seats, feet, and empty beer cups. Through the grace of God or the Sox insurance agency, he makes it to the lower level, where there are only ramps to roll down.
Our unusual seatmates gone with an anticlimactic finish (though I can't speak for what may or may not have happened either in the bathroom or at their hotel room (one double bed + two drunk dudes = ??)), Pops and I are left to enjoy the game. Pedroia, Okajima, Papelbon, and finally a terrific catch by Coco treated us to this:
Fenway likes winners from Sam on Vimeo.
Dirty Water. See you back in Fenway, Wednesday night.