Orioles vs. Yankees June 27th

The Day I Almost Didn't Make It Through

(or No More in Baltimore)

The day began as so many others before it--waking up in a strange place with no familiar faces, much less anything else. It was the same old stuff, a new shower, new toilet, new city, new public transportation, new sites to mark off the list, and new timetable to fail to keep to. I managed to swallow down a trip to see the Liberty Bell, which looked remarkably like a bell, yet the visit was redeemed by my inexcusable pleasure of having some poor security girl sift through my backpack full of clothes still damp with day old sweat (Those Canadians jaded me). The measures that we go to to protect our national icons and those viewing them aren't the engaging, flashy and popular media outlets like the Petraeus Report or a State of the Union, but rather they are embodied in the salaried citizens wearing rubber gloves checking my dirty undies to make sure that I haven't any spray paint or nuclear weapons in my bag. A silly endeavor, since everyone knows that the briefs I'm wearing are where I store my Weapon of Mass Destruction.

Philadelphia eventually gave way to the sprawling humid metropolis of Baltimore. An insolent city insistent on claiming from me as much sweat as possible, Baltimore proved to be almost too much. Bent over from a brief tour of the city's harbor, I found my way into the nearest microbrewery, intent on enjoying some A/C and a fine meal before the game. Fate, instead, served me a delicious happy hour special of some of the best beers this side of Kansas City. Aside from the Hefeweisen, the Capital City Brewing Company concocted a dark, coffee brewed beer full of flavor and caffeine, accented with a hint of America. Three micro brews and a platter of Chicken Fingers later, I was off to see Roger Clemens pitch against the Orioles.

Fast forward to the second inning. Having enjoyed Camden Yards twist on the National Anthem (the O in "oh say does that star spangled..." is emphatically enunciated) and already heard the answer to too many questions be Cal Ripken, Jr., I settled into my bleacher seats just as the summation of 7 collective hours on a decrepit bus, a night in a windy hostel, two days of living out of a backpack, a humidity nearing 100% while walking in the evening heat, and three pints of dark, heavy beers and lightly breaded chicken tenders settled into my body. Things turned bad quickly.

I clammed up like Victor Conte. I started sweating like a me in church. Oddly enough, resignation set in first instead of defiance. "I'm not going to make it through all the games," I grudgingly thought to myself.

Luckily for you, me, and everything holy in baseball, the very factors relegating me to defeat kept me from achieving it. Kept me from doing much of anything, actually, except lying across bleacher seats trying to find any water in my body to sweat out. My strength returned slowly, at first only enough to lift my cell phone. I began calling people to find out if the Chinatown Bus From Hell I had scheduled for that night had a Sister Bus From Hell leaving earlier. Dead end after dead end doomed me to my bleacher seat, saving me at the same time. When logic finally pushed me to call my Cousin Joe, exiled to sitting in front of a computer studying for his Bar Exam and all too willing to have a study break, he informed me I had missed my chance to flee.

I bemoaned my fate. I cried to myself like Dick Vermiel at a press conference. I pitied myself like legless Lt. Dan. I knew it was for the best, but avoided the truth like Tony Snow. Eventually my saving grace talked me through this tough time. My friend Ryan showed the tough love that only someone with who has earned the right to display the bumper sticker "New Orleans-Proud to Swim Home" can give. He refused my excuses, called me the names I needed to be called and cannot repeat here, and reminded me of the fact that had started to wane as I suffered through this, the 24th game of the summer.

I was living the dream--and I needed to start living it. There are lots of things to bitch about, and watching Roger Clemens pitch in Camden Yards is not one of them. He was right, and righted my ship in time for me to enjoy the rest of another great ballgame.

As for the things that are more acceptable to bitch about, the bus ride through the stoops of Baltimore at midnight wasn't one of them, although it could have been. The waiting for the bus on a grassy hill in the middle nowhere isn't one of them, but it could be. The 6 hour Chinatown bus ride, 4 a.m. walk through the streets of New York City, 45 minute subway delay, and the "company" I ran into along the way, however, might have been bitchable material.

How many Rats can you spot?

(Click on the picture for my best guess of the number of rats)

((Sorry about the Weapon of Mass Destruction joke, I couldn't pass it up))

(((But it is true)))