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Dope, the Nod, and Paying Dues on the Road
The first rule of going on the road is don't mess with the locals. This rule can be twisted a bit during the course of a game.
Last night was huge, and the rain delay decided the outcome, thanks to the fact that the Braves fans left, and the Red Sox fans stayed and demanded victory. These Sox seem to get the fact that the fans are crazed for it, tired of seeing a generation slowly disappear without reaching the top. We can get these Sox to want it as much as we do. We picked up the tickets at Will Call, and let's just say that Miss Gail is going to dig running up and down the Sheraton. We're back in leftfield. There's a couple of bars here that have a view of the field so we check it out. Down by the rightfield pole at the Club level is a bar called Turner Beach. It looks more like a joint to rent for a party, they're only serving beer. The view isn't bad.
It gets obvious real quick that it's not our night, but we hang in. The Atlanta fans do the quick exit trick again, but we stay in leftfield.
Friday night we stuffed it to them. Maybe a bit too much, but that's what we do. This was one of those games when you pay up, a good ol' fashioned ass whoopin'. We met some natives who have a clue and seem to know the game. As we leave I lean over to shake hands and remind them to beat up the Yankees if they get them.
They won't get the the Yankees.
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The other is a good size facility, complete with a bar, tables and eats. The obligatory MLB Bud sign hangs above this joint. Is it an unfair trade practice when the guys selling the legal dope get to advertise to the general population?
The barber, who continues to get staggering drunk, nods around the seventh inning. One of the chicks in front of us notices he's drooling. Fortunately, she doesn't recognized me. I wake him up, he quickly snaps out of it, and I quickly wish I had let him sleep. Kick ass road crew my ass.
