Woah. There are, like, a lot of people at my son’s baseball game. They look so… sporty. And there is literally no shade. Wow, it’s hot!
Do I really have to stay and cheer my son on? He won’t notice if I leave, right? No, I’m going to do this. Put on my game face. Step up to the plate. Knock it out of the park. Yeah, baseball stuff.
Oh no, now there’s even more people, and they’re firing up a grill? Does this mean they’re staying? Why can’t everyone just drop their kid off and leave?
Do I approach them? No, too desperate. I can’t let them know I’ve forgotten how to speak to humans over four feet tall.
Here comes Carla. Geez, her legs look like they could destroy me with one roundhouse! I wonder if she can smell fear? Quick, think of something natural to say!
Wow, really didn’t plan on saying, “Neat-o, a real life three dimensional human being wants to talk to me. Just please don’t hurt me!?”
She asked me how I’m doing. Do I tell her the truth, right off the bat? That I once broke my finger on a Nerf ball because I have hollow bones? That I once threw up in the dugout from nerves? That I’m currently sweating like a nun in a cucumber patch?
I just told her that I’m doing great because Another Round with Mads Mikkelsen is now free on demand, so I can keep my eye on his balls anytime. The heat may have permanently damaged my brain.
And now I’m drinking beer. I don’t even drink, but I guess that’s what people do? And now it’s what I do? Who am I?!
Yikes, that is a really fast ball! Why do they have to make the ball so hard? The pitcher’s got them crazy eyes! And my son is so little! Maybe I should go save him? How long is this game, seven hours?!
Food, I need food. Oh look, here’s a burger. Is it weird that I keep wiping the ketchup off my mouth with the back of my hand because I forgot how to eat around people?
Oof, shouldn’t eat so fast. I have to unleash a real foul ball, but if I walk over there, then I have to pass like fourteen people.
Kevin’s here, good. People will think it was him. Wait, Kevin asked me a question right as I took a bite. How am I supposed to talk and chew at the same time? Maybe I can shove this burger into the side of my mouth.
Great, now he’s staring at the bulge in the side of my mouth. Oh no, I think I’m choking — it’s, like, super stuck. Talk about coming out of left field. Ugh, why can’t I stop thinking in baseball metaphors?!
Quick, I need something to drink! Kevin’s beer!
Yes, I can breathe again. And now I’m drinking another beer. I am so getting drunk.
Now there’s a tailgate going down. Are we tailgating? Is this what people do? Why is everyone staring at me? They’re all staring at me! Should I have not worn flannel footie pajamas? Lord, please let there be a humongous natural disaster right now!
Oh, they’re just watching the game. Right, the game! What’s the score? Who’s winning? I hope we win!
If we don’t win this game I think I’m going to lose it, right here in front of all these people. I am going to fall on my knees and scream: “I hate sports! I never win! I only won the brown and black participation ribbons, and I was always the last one picked for the team, and my son has tiny avian-esque bones that could be easily crushed by a fast hardball!”
Oh wait, did my son just steal second base? And third? Well done, my boy! Run home! Yep, just like your mama.