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A Baseball Triple Play

It’s all baseball all day here today, kids. First, over at Bugs & Cranks, an homage to the newest ex-Brave:

The Rise and Fall of Ryan Langerhans — What three hits in a month gets you in the major leagues.

Then, the latest attempt by various bits of my body to predict the outcome of today’s games:

Daily Predictions: A Homer’s Heart and a Hollow Head — When waffling once per game just won’t do.

And here, a warm and snuggly tale about my upcoming plans at Fenway Park. We’re rounding third now, and heading for home!

Later today, I’ll be attending my first Red Sox game of the young season. Baseball in New England is always an adventure, but these springtime games offer a whole new twist to the nation’s pasttime — unpredictable and rapidly changing weather. The climate can go from mild and seasonal to mad Nor’Easter in no time, and that wreaks a special kind of havoc on the games being played. Not to mention the fans getting drunk and pretending to watch.

The meteorologists are no help, either. Around this time of year, all the local weather weenies want to be the first to ring in blue skies and a warm sunny summer, so they’re prone to jumping the gun on calling the ‘all clear and sizzling’. That’s no big deal if you’re trotting out the short sleeves around the office for the first time in a few months. You might get a little nippy near the water cooler, but otherwise, you should emerge unscathed from your climatological faux pas.

“After my last trip to Fenway, my wife says I’m not allowed to use the Dustbuster to suck out parts of my body that have crawled up inside me any more.”

If, on the other hand, you’re spending six hours braving the elements at the ballpark, wearing nothing but cutoff shorts and a painted ‘B’ on your chest, you might be in for some trouble. Trust me. After my last trip to Fenway, my wife says I’m not allowed to use the Dustbuster to suck out parts of my body that have crawled up inside me any more.

(It’s just as well. It’s always a pain in the ass to empty that teeny little bag.

From the Dustbuster.

That’s the bag I’m talking about.

Boy, this is awkward, huh?

Moving right along, then.)

There was a bright side to freezing my coconuts that day, though. It was so cold, I could hang pretzels on my nipples when I needed my hands free for high-fiving. There’s always a silver lining, you see. Even if it’s an uncomfortable, nasty, mustard-stained silver lining — it’s still there. Attaboy.

This time around, I’ve vowed not to be caught unprepared. Tonight, I’m wearing long pants to the ballpark. And a parka. And mukluks. And one of those furry hats with the flaps that Canadians seem to think are appropriate somehow. I’ll tell people I’m from Wisconsin; it’ll be fine.

(Those are some crazy hats, but they’ve got to be pretty toasty, right? The last time I had that much fuzz that close to my ears was when I accidentally tripped onto the stage at a Vegas strip club. I wonder if the hats smell like vanilla musk and desperation, too?

I bet mine will.)

Precipitation could be a problem, too. So I’ll be taking an umbrella, obviously. And an ice scraper, in case the seat gets enslickened by a sudden cold spell. I might as well take a snowblower, while I’m at it. If the weather doesn’t require it, I can always use it to blow things up into fans of the opposing team. I sure hope they bring their Dustbusters, or they’re going to need that ‘seventh inning stretch’ pretty badly.

Of course, if it actually is warm, I should be prepared for that, too. So I’ll pack a T-shirt in my back pocket. Plus a pair of shorts in my coat, sunglasses in my shirt pocket, and a pair of light kicky sandals under my hat. And if sweaty comes to sweltering, I can always strip down to the Speedos with a big Boston ‘B’ on the ass. I just have to watch out for wedgies, or it looks like I’m cheering for a team starting with ‘E’.

(That got me into a lot of hot water when the Expos were in town. Now I just tell folks I’m supporting G.M. Theo Epstein, and they usually won’t question it.

After a couple of Fenway franks, people probably assume I’ve got his whole name hiding up in there somewhere. Those things will balloon your ass out like ‘El Guapo’ hooked to a helium tank.)

So no matter the weather tonight, I’ll be ready. Of course, I’ll miss the first four innings being patted down, and I’ll need to buy another seat for all the stuff I’m bringing. But my weather worries are a thing of the past, thanks to a little prudent planning. There’s just one question remaining:

Where the hell am I going to hang my pretzels now?

Somebody rent me a stiff nipple for the evening. Help a hungry brother out, won’t you?