Friday night at this tiny A-League ballpark and the five of us roll in like we own the place. Three of us have been there before, the others were park virgins. After some seasonals in lame team polos scan our tickets, we head straight to the Oskar Blues tent to pick up some tallboys. One of my friends knows the lady behind the counter and she slices the price from six-fifty to three for us. Score. This being Jesus Carolina, only one beer at a time per customer, please. Make our way up the stairs where there seems to be way too many damn ushers trying to help fans find their seats. We don't need no stupid usher help, we got this.
General admission seating happens on the upper level in opposite corners of the ballpark. Upper level is relative, because it's maybe a step up from a walkway that cuts the sections in half. We don't see any five seats close together on the right field side at first, so we start along the walkway looking for other spots. We come to a large swath of empty seats right in the middle of the stands, behind home plate and free from any wild foul balls thanks to the nets. We settle into a row a few stairs up, where the others set their things to go find food and I'm left to my own devices trying to protect the seats from strangers. Always a tricky time, trying to shoo others from plopping down where your friends totally claimed first. "Uh these seats are taken sorry", "sorry but my friends are sitting here." Christ, so many phrases you have to think about trying to be nice yet try not to be a dickwad about it. Luckily I didn't have to mutter anything for the short time they were gone. Guess my sprawled wingspan was enough to deter hopeful strangers.
After a brief time a few of my pals returned. Two others did not because who the hell knows why. Now I got two seats to my left I have to protect in case they ever decide to return. We're watching the game that starts off with a grand slam shortly into it, and my first batch of strangers looking to plop down next to me approaches. Now since we pre-beveraged before we took Uber over here I was feeling pretty good and probably mumbled some stupid incoherent nonsense to this couple, who ended up scooting past us to sit further down. Looks like I got my message out to them. You ain't sitting here, jerks. Or I guess one of the jackets the missing pals left draped over the two chairs wasn't enough fucking proof these seats next to me weren't going to be yours.
By the third inning things were beginning to heat up on the diamond. Score was already six to nothing, the other team winning of course. I take particular pride in my bad luck, so I'm sure there's some sort of black cloud hanging over the home team here to get thoroughly demolished tonight. And speaking of demolished, I was slowly getting there, nursing through my second tallboy already. The fact I could even see the damn scoreboard hundreds of feet away was amazing in itself. I break the seal and go in search of a restroom. Once spotted, I check in, do my thing, then start drying my hands with one of those dumb air machines. Off to my right is a boy using a urinal with both his pants and undies down all the way to the floor, his bare bum exposed. Good job, dad. I mean unless this kid's drunk too.
Before I head back to my seat, I swing by the beer station and grab another can. Now I'm living on the edge with two beers at my seat. Suckers. The fourth inning goes kind of dull and there's still no signs of the other friends. Maybe they're off fucking somewhere, maybe robbing the concession stand like deviant twentysomethings do. By the fifth inning I move onto beer number three and the other two pals finally come back with hot dogs for all of us and some gross-looking chili fries. No thanks. Not enough toilet paper here for that. The hot dogs though, sure. I wolf down two of those damn sodium sticks and it helps take the buzz down a notch.
Not ten minutes later a group of four women came up next to us, telling us we were sitting in their seats. Uh, what? C'mon. All these damn empty seats here and these are specifically yours? They start showing us the seat numbers on their dumb ticket stubs, but we were too drunk to even bother arguing with them. Come to find out we weren't even sitting in the general admission seats, so maybe these ladies sort of had a point. The best thing about this is our gen admin tickets cost seven dollars each. According to the park layout and price map, these ladies paid no more than eight dollars apiece for their stupid tickets and precious assigned seating. That's right, paying just one more dollar allows you some special privilege and to show up five goddamn innings into the game, expecting your seats to be empty waiting for you.
Our inebriated selves gather up our things and find another open section nearby. Finish the game there, watch fireworks after, then leave. Nobody comes up to us claiming these were their seats. We finish off the night having a great time elsewhere while those lame dames six rows up in our former seats probably had a lonely as hell night. Or at least I hope they did.
General admission seating happens on the upper level in opposite corners of the ballpark. Upper level is relative, because it's maybe a step up from a walkway that cuts the sections in half. We don't see any five seats close together on the right field side at first, so we start along the walkway looking for other spots. We come to a large swath of empty seats right in the middle of the stands, behind home plate and free from any wild foul balls thanks to the nets. We settle into a row a few stairs up, where the others set their things to go find food and I'm left to my own devices trying to protect the seats from strangers. Always a tricky time, trying to shoo others from plopping down where your friends totally claimed first. "Uh these seats are taken sorry", "sorry but my friends are sitting here." Christ, so many phrases you have to think about trying to be nice yet try not to be a dickwad about it. Luckily I didn't have to mutter anything for the short time they were gone. Guess my sprawled wingspan was enough to deter hopeful strangers.
After a brief time a few of my pals returned. Two others did not because who the hell knows why. Now I got two seats to my left I have to protect in case they ever decide to return. We're watching the game that starts off with a grand slam shortly into it, and my first batch of strangers looking to plop down next to me approaches. Now since we pre-beveraged before we took Uber over here I was feeling pretty good and probably mumbled some stupid incoherent nonsense to this couple, who ended up scooting past us to sit further down. Looks like I got my message out to them. You ain't sitting here, jerks. Or I guess one of the jackets the missing pals left draped over the two chairs wasn't enough fucking proof these seats next to me weren't going to be yours.
By the third inning things were beginning to heat up on the diamond. Score was already six to nothing, the other team winning of course. I take particular pride in my bad luck, so I'm sure there's some sort of black cloud hanging over the home team here to get thoroughly demolished tonight. And speaking of demolished, I was slowly getting there, nursing through my second tallboy already. The fact I could even see the damn scoreboard hundreds of feet away was amazing in itself. I break the seal and go in search of a restroom. Once spotted, I check in, do my thing, then start drying my hands with one of those dumb air machines. Off to my right is a boy using a urinal with both his pants and undies down all the way to the floor, his bare bum exposed. Good job, dad. I mean unless this kid's drunk too.
Before I head back to my seat, I swing by the beer station and grab another can. Now I'm living on the edge with two beers at my seat. Suckers. The fourth inning goes kind of dull and there's still no signs of the other friends. Maybe they're off fucking somewhere, maybe robbing the concession stand like deviant twentysomethings do. By the fifth inning I move onto beer number three and the other two pals finally come back with hot dogs for all of us and some gross-looking chili fries. No thanks. Not enough toilet paper here for that. The hot dogs though, sure. I wolf down two of those damn sodium sticks and it helps take the buzz down a notch.
Not ten minutes later a group of four women came up next to us, telling us we were sitting in their seats. Uh, what? C'mon. All these damn empty seats here and these are specifically yours? They start showing us the seat numbers on their dumb ticket stubs, but we were too drunk to even bother arguing with them. Come to find out we weren't even sitting in the general admission seats, so maybe these ladies sort of had a point. The best thing about this is our gen admin tickets cost seven dollars each. According to the park layout and price map, these ladies paid no more than eight dollars apiece for their stupid tickets and precious assigned seating. That's right, paying just one more dollar allows you some special privilege and to show up five goddamn innings into the game, expecting your seats to be empty waiting for you.
Our inebriated selves gather up our things and find another open section nearby. Finish the game there, watch fireworks after, then leave. Nobody comes up to us claiming these were their seats. We finish off the night having a great time elsewhere while those lame dames six rows up in our former seats probably had a lonely as hell night. Or at least I hope they did.