Extra Innings

...sun's comin' up I got cakes on the griddle/Life ain't nothin' but a funny funny riddle....

I'm later than I mean to be, which is more or less always the case, and phone on my way over.

Hello, Mommy-Mom.

"Hello, Baby-Babe!"

Are you having breakfast? Are you up? Have you washed and dried and dressed?

She answers in an order that makes sense, which is not the order in which I asked.

"I AM up, I have clothes on, and I'm working on this grapefruit."

I'll make the rest of your breakfast when I get there. I'm on my way now.

We discuss going out to the ballpark. It's my last opportunity of the season to take her to a day game. Well, Monday would also work, but tickets are more expensive (the Yankees are in on Monday) and besides, that's Senior Day at MDRF, and I want to take her. EAS plans to take her later this month when her friend Anita can be there as well, but something will come up, with Anita or the weather or EAS, and then she won't get to go.

And Mother needs her chocolate covered frozen cheesecake on a stick.

I arrive, and she's done a fairly competent job of breakfast. The toast is about to burn, but I rescue it. After food, I hustle her into the shower. I keep expecting her to back out of our ballgame plans, come up with excuses for not going, something. Though when we went a week or so ago, it was fine, she enjoyed herself and is looking forward to going again.

The Toronto Blue Jays are in town, which means the whole city gets to hate on Bautista, which, it occurs to me, I will miss doing when smug jerk retires eventually.

After I've walked dogs, I make lunch for Mother, even though she's just had breakfast, hoping she'll nibble and nosh and fill up while I go home to buy and print tickets and get things together for the game.

Gomez and I spend enough time hunting for his baseball hat that we're late to fetch Mother, park farther away from the stadium than I like and miss out on receiving today's giveaway caps from Dap.

We sit in Upper Reserve, where seats are cheap and the sun can shine on us if it sneaks through the heavy cloud cover. But not too much with the shining- we have our decorated straw hats from last time.

In front of us, there is a family including a pair of teen girls. Mother repeatedly leans forward to tap them, to speak to them, to touch them. At one point, the one with hip-length hair pulls out a brush. Mother taps her and extends her hand for the brush. The girl tentatively hands the brush to her. After a few messy and ineffective jabs, I gently take the brush from Mother.

Let's let her brush her own hair, shall we? She probably likes it a certain way.

I mean, it's nice that she's engaged. It's nice that she's interactive. It's a bit embarrassing, though, for me, and, I imagine, disconcerting for the girls. They are more courteous and patient with Mother's frequent intrusions than one might expect considering the current levels of rudeness. Mom to at least one of them is there, and perhaps she's an anchor. Or they look comfortable there; perhaps frequent visitors, who have become accustomed to a variety of eccentrics surrounding them. At any rate, I am possibly overly empathetic imagining their discomfort.

Gomez disappears for a long while, returning with a Boog Powell barbeque sandwich. I remind Mother of Young Boog Powell, who plays for Oakland, who was pictured in her newspaper with Old Boog Powell and a sandwich. Young Boog Powell is Herschel Mark Powell IV and the son of a baseball fan. We watched him play when we went to the game on Wednesday the 23rd, leaving before the 12th inning had finished, and listening on the radio when Manny hits a walk-off homer.

Mother is engaged in the game, cheering enthusiastically for Manny, Adam, and particularly Trey Mancini, this year's amazing rookie. She's paying attention to the plays, as evidenced by her applause when Toronto players make excellent catches or during double-play action. I'm glad she's enjoying herself.

The teams are tied in the ninth, so throughout the following innings, people leave for their various whatever-they-may-bes, and the young ladies move down a few rows. I pen a tine thank you note for the mother, asking her to convey my gratitude to the girls, and give it to her during an exciting moment of action, when Mother won't see and question me. At the finale, she turns and says, "that's all right, hon." I reiterate my thanks for their tolerance.

Today's game also goes to twelve innings. It also has the correct outcome. We stay for the whole game this time, and get to see a little pie action.

Gomez helps me keep track of Mother during our exit with the throng. As we pass the gate, a stadium worker says, "Hey, where's ya'all's rally caps?" I turn back with a smile.

We didn't arrive in time to get them.

"That's okay, I like yours better anyhow."

"Me, too," says Mother.

Thanks, Mom. Really.

John Denver; Thank God I'm A Country Boy