I Don't Know, Why Did I Call You A Douche? Opening Day Part 2

Beer in hand, Jason looked at me with a glimmer in his eye. I see the same glimmer in my son's eye, usually right before he guns his ball into my face. I shook my head at Jason. Don't you dare, just don't even.

He looked at me, looked at his beer, looked at Jeter. I think I saw fear in the eyes of our Yankee seat neighbors. Jason conceded. Jeter missed the Bud Light blood bath. Settling into our seats, Jason started yelling at Andy Pettite instead. "Cheater! You're a cheater!" Our mild mannered, Nebraska born seat mates looked shocked. I apologized again.

But soon, Johnny Damon was up to bat. I jumped up out of my seat, "How does it feel to shave your face for the devil, Johnny?" At that, the Yankees fans laughed at me and looked proud that Yankees have to be clean cut. I looked proud about my taunt.

The seat neighbors to the other side of us got up to head over to the party deck. We called my sister and told them to head over to the seats. More beer and jalapeno laden nachos magically appeared. My sister and I scrambled for the jalapenos and took huge scoops of something they claim is cheese. I say it's delicious. When the peno's and most of the cheese was gone, we passed them back to the guys.

Before we knew it, the party deck goers came back. So we decided to roam the stadium. We checked out the kid's park, with their mini-soft pretzels. We marveled at the carousel and then jumped up and down on the soft material surrounding the jungle gym.

Soon we found our way to the outside of the new bar. But how to get in? Simply enough, I ducked under the rope. I was still half dangle-crouching under the rope when the cop grabbed my arm. He insisted we had to use the front entrance. However, he had a back and he had to turn it towards me eventually. When he did, I made my move, right in front of the bar employee, my sister and I swooped under the rope. Of course, my sister and her fiance know someone at the bar, right? Then Jason made his way under the rope. The only person left was Kurt, my future-bro-inlaw. Being over 6'5", it wasn't so easy to get him past the cop's backside.

A little finagling and the promise of phone numbers that belong to eighteen year old cheerleaders my sister coaches and soon the 19-year old bar employee was releasing the rope for Kurt.

We are all standing around, loud, drinking, being hilarious and suddenly these words are leaving my mouth, "that guy looks like a complete douche." Next thing I know the douche as has turned around and asked, "What did she just say?"

*This is where I have to stop and tell you this. We are obviously serious fans. When girls come to the games wearing mini-skirts, halters and stilettos, my sister and I laugh, hard. Because have you seen those girls navigate the stands? Right. They look at the games as magical husband finding land. The guy who just walked near me? Looking for those girls. I saw his hair before.... on Simon LeBon in 1986. His pink polo shirt and it's popped collar peeked out from beneath a brown blazer. No one had told this guy, he was at a baseball game.*

He looks at Jason and DanTim, who we had just met, "Did she just call me a douche?" Jason replies, "Why yes sir, I think she did!" He looks at me, "Why did you call me that?" I cannot help it, I laugh, "I don't know, why would I do that?" I look at my beer (you asshole beer). The guy still looks shocked, "No, really, why?" "Uh, actually I was talking to your shirt." He looks at Jason, "What?" "I think she's saying, your pink shirt and brown jacket belong to some douche that is at a baseball game." DanTim steps behind Jason, ready to back him up and defend him against douche shirt and Simon LeBon's hair. Simon Douche looks at Jason, looks at me, shrugs and moves on.

I don't think he knew. Good thing I told him.

At this point? I could regale you with the names of local sports celebrities that we came in contact with, but it would mean nothing if you don't live in KC. We watched the post game show, doing our best to distract the on-camera talent. And we did. Taking pictures with every part of the stadium that would stand still, we soon realized we were the last people in the stadium that didn't work there. On our way out, I realized I didn't have my camera. Back to the outfield side we raced, Jason coercing our way back into the bar, no cop to dodge this time, I made my staggering way to the bathroom to find my camera, that was no doubt, sitting on the counter. All of our Yankee hating memories sitting within that camera.



Out of the bathroom I came, camera in hand (because who would want to lose this gem?). Jason asked if it was in the bathroom, "Sure" I nodded. Out to the car we went to head to the neighborhood bar for beers and a Nacho pulling competition.

It was on the way to the bar that I revealed the camera had been in my pocket the whole time.

It's probably best to end it by telling you that I passed out talking to my mom at our kitchen table and got up to a doggy bag of nachos for breakfast and salsa all over the second jersey I wore that comprised my 6 layers of shirts for game day.