“Hello? … Yeah, this is him. … I have a what? … A blog? Oh, shit, that’s right.”
Ahem.
Hey, you guys! How’s it going? Me? No, I didn’t die; I’ve just been trying desperately to make the minimum monthly payments on my Mt. Everest-sized pile of debt … and since my mad website-building skillz currently pay more than my mad blogging skillz, I’ve been focusing as of late on the former endeavor … which explains why I currently am in Boston attending An Event Apart, a conference for people who build websites.
The best part about attending the conference? My employer is paying for it. The second best part about attending the conference? I got to hit last night’s Red Sox game with my Dad.
The best part about hitting last night’s Red Sox game with my Dad? He paid for it.
Actually, the best part about hitting the Red Sox game with my Dad … was hitting a Red Sox game with my Dad … something that neither of us had any interest in doing when I was a kid. (This is what my social-worker wife would call a “corrective experience.”)
Now, as with any plan involving my Dad, there was a high probability of confusion and chaos … which is why, when he called me from a stranger’s phone 40 minutes prior to game time and left me a voicemail saying that he’d forgotten his own phone at home, I was convinced that the likelihood of him and I finding each other in the mayhem outside of Fenway Park prior to, say, the 7th inning was anorexically slim.
(And for those of you asking: “Why didn’t you just answer your phone when it rang, dumb ass?” Well, firstly: I don’t appreciate being called a dumb ass. Secondly: I rarely answer my phone when I do recognize the caller’s phone number … but when I don’t recognize the caller’s phone number? The caller stands a better chance of contacting me via carrier pigeon.)
And so it was that I hunkered down at my favorite pregame watering hole, ordered up a delicious Fenway Pale Ale …
… and prepared to watch the first six-or-so innings on the flat screen hanging over the bar.
You guys: Life really is full of surprises:
It is with tremendous glee that I tell you the photo above was taken during the bottom of the second inning … and it is with even greater glee that I tell you we arrived at our seats in the bottom of the first inning, just seconds before Big Papi hit a two-run, game-tying blast into the right-field seats.
Add to all of that some spectacular weather and seats that were located a mere eight rows away from the field …
… and what you have is a Hallmark-worthy evening of father-and-son bonding.
Thanks for the corrective experience, Pop!
Glad you got to get some time away and hit the park with your pop! I did that on my b-day at a Braves game a few years ago. It was awesome.
So I win the prize for Most Apathetic Blogger then. Yay, me!
The event would only have been made more memorable had Van Halen played the National Anthem. 🙂
Oh, so you have at Mt. Everest-sized pile of debt too? Good to know, I’m not the only wage-slave out there.
Glad you got to have that “corrective experience” with your dad. Although to be honest a “corrective experience” sounds more like a painful procedure or rehabilitation via incarceration. But I digress, you had fun and that’s what matters.
Glad you are still alive, I really enjoy your blog.
I totally agree: I don’t answer the phone if I don’t recognize the number. Except these days I do because I’m using my cell-phone in my job search. So I kind of have to.
Also, that beer looks yummy.
Oh the magic of baseball. Only in the last couple of years (I’m 37) did my father and I discover we *could* speak the same language – the language of baseball. We may not have deep, meaningful conversations, but we can spend time together (or text each other) during the games. I have a “relationship” with my father!
Claw – Go Rangers!
I’m glad you’re alive, too, because I just added your site to my “favorite blogs” links and I’d hate for my readers to show up at a funeral.
Good to see you had fun with your dad. I get to see my dad soon, and I can’t wait. I miss the old fart.
Awesome, great stuff. Someday, maybe, God willing, I’ll make it to Boston. Or it won’t happen at all. Who knows.