we went to the ball game today and of course, our team received a severe spanking, although, like the collaborates-with-the-enemy kind of gal I am, I wore a shirt supporting the out of town (spankers) team which was an homage to where my mom was born. Did she appreciate it? She did not wear a shirt supporting her place of birth team. She wore a where she lives now (spankees) shirt. So did my child. We are a mixed family.

I went to the ladies room by myself and as I exited a guy walking past with a big group of what looked like his family sort of leaned toward me and said in a low hissy whisper only I could hear, "Well, why don't you go back to ______ (name of the out of towner's town)?" as he passed."Oh, go fuck yourself, schmo," I thought, though I did not say it out loud. Just thinking it pleased me and so that was enough.

When it was time for the Star Spangled Banner we all shuffled to our feet.I was intrigued by the honor guard presenting the colors. They were from a local fire house and one of the firemen carried a huge, shiny silver axe at the ready. It looked just like the one my uncle received enshrined in a walnut display case when he retired as the state fire chief of a Midwestern state many years ago. (This is the association of all the chief's in one state. They too have a chief. It's a big deal to be the state chief). It is hanging in his den in a place called "The Villages" in Florida, which is kind of a surreal Stepford-ish town for old geezers. A lot of good the axe does up there on the "wall of me" collecting dust.

Anyway, I wondered why one would need such an axe to carry next to a young man brandishing the stars and stripes with much pomp and circumstance. It's not like the axe is necessary. Not like it would/could be used in the event of a fire at the ball game. Would it be used to beat the fire out of the flag were it to catch fire? These things are a mystery to me. But there is something about a guy wielding an axe that makes me all gushy inside. And the SSB, which was sung in four-part harmony by four old gals in matching red, white and blue denim outfits made me misty. This took me by surprise. I thought about how Randy would have hated what they were wearing. They sang lustily.

I was wondering if the four older singing gals were lesbians when a kid started running up the stairs next to where I was standing. He had a ball glove in his hand and was obviously on a mission to find the best possible position in the ball park from which to catch fly balls.

But not yet."Hold it!" An usher stuck his arm out and stopped the kid who would have been clothes-lined had he not stopped in his tracks.

"Turn around and put your hand over your heart. Have some respect, kid," the old guy commanded. (Our ushers are retirees. They demand R-E-S-P-E-C-T). The kid did as he was told. He stood motionless. I am a statue.

The ladies wrapped up their warbling, beaming at one another as their voices blended perfectly, smooth and fluid. I thought of my friend in Paris who is struggling to communicate with her neighbors and says she will weigh 600 pounds when she gets back here in two years because she is living on sausage and baguettes. I thought of how much she loves baseball. I missed her. I was glad I was at the game. I wished she was too.

I watched the usher watch the kid like a hawk, moving his lips to the words. I inhaled the smell of the peanuts and the beer and yes, even the disgusting nachos smelled like baseball, and then I got a lump in my throat and felt all sentimental.

When the ump yelled "Play ball!" I thought, "Shucks it's good to be alive."