So yesterday was the first installment of “Serial Saturdays.” Thank you all who read and have commented. I am thinking about where I want the story to go, and I have two fun twists in mind. Hopefully, I can pull it off.
Yesterday, when I went to start the story, I wrote something completely different that I knew I would never be able to turn into a story of revenge. I copied it into a word document and started over (yes, yesterday was a llooonnng day at the computer) So, I wanted to share my other little project, too. It combines some of my favorite elements: baseball, beer, and flirtation!
Nothings changes. People will tell you that it does, but it doesn’t; I have proof.
Just yesterday, I decided I wanted to go out to eat, but I wasn’t really in the mood to call any friends. I didn’t want to entertain or be entertained. I didn’t want to listen to anyone drone on about busy schedules and busy lives, bad boyfriends and horrible break-ups. I just wanted a little peace and quiet, some time to myself. I felt more than happy to go up to The Locker Room, a local little pub, and sit at the bar by myself. I could watch whatever they had on the television, have a couple of draft beers, and eat a salad.
But what 24-year-old female gets to enjoy time alone in a bar? A female alone in a bar means one of two things: One, she is waiting for someone, or two, she wants to get picked up. Isn’t that what men think? No man would think twice if a 24-year old guy bellied up to the bar to watch Sports Center and drink a couple of drafts, but when a female does it, they believe she has a purpose other than to relax.
I wasn’t in my bar stool five minutes when a man sat down next to me and tried to strike up a conversation.
“Are you watching this game?” he asked.
“Yes.” My response was curt. I stayed staring at the television. The Indians were winning 2-1 in the bottom of the seventh against the Devil Rays. Cabrera was up to bat, and he had already struck out twice, so I wanted to see if he could square his hips and get a hit.
However, he did not get my hint. “Are you an Indians fan?” he asked. He turned his body, and I felt his leg graze mine ever so slightly. I picked up my beer and looked at him for the first time. He had a receding hairline, but I didn’t think he looked much older than me. He was very tan. I glanced at his hands; they were rough and calloused, but clean.
“They’re okay. I’m more of a National League girl.” I knew that my attempts at solitude were quickly evaporating.
“National league? Why is that?” he asked.
“Because it is baseball the way it is supposed to be played. The nuance of the game is complete and real, and when the pitcher comes up to bat, he has just as good of a chance as anyone to get a hit. I’m not a fan of the DH, although, I know men like Cecil Fielder would not have had the stats or the careers they did unless the position existed. I am more of a purist, I guess.”
I took a sip of my beer and glanced at the game. Cabrera struck out and the Indians were back in the field. The game was going fast, and I thought that with the end of the game, I could easily sleep away.
“You know a lot about baseball,” he said. I could hear a slight sound of amazement in his voice. I probably should have played dumb to avoid conversation, but my step-father was the third base coach for the Phillies, and I spent many summer days at the ballpark, learning the game.
“I know some.”
“Can I get you another beer?” The bartender was in front of me. My glass was almost empty.