Sharyn brought Pursey Galore to her first sporting event, an Oakland A’s v. Los Angeles Angels weekend event over Labor Day. Although I do not believe this represents the actual sequence of events, I think we can all agree that it COULD have happened.
“You’re not bringing that with you, are you?”
Sharyn looked at her spangly zebra striped bag. “Of course I am,” she replied.
Her husband squirmed just a little. “To a baseball game??” he implored.
Sharyn nodded and threw some glitter lip-gloss into the bag. Not because she had any intention of wearing glitter lip-gloss, but because it fit.
Her husband sighed, resigned. Maybe no one would notice. On the space shuttle.
Once at the game, Sharyn worried slightly that the sun glinting off the sequins might actually blind an infielder at an inopportune moment, but decided that coping with outrageously loud accessories in the grandstand was one of the ways professional ball players justified their salaries.
She settled in for a hot dog.
And a beer.
And garlic fries.
Because nothing is better that a hot dog, a beer, and garlic fries at a baseball game.
As the sun shifted slowly overhead, Sharyn reached into her purse and pulled out a cap and tugged it snugly onto her head.
The game was a nail biter.
Ahead. Then behind. Then tied with a runner stranded at third. Sharyn had screamed herself hoarse.
She reached into the purse and pulled out a roll of lifesavers to suck on.
When her husband inadvertently scraped his thumb on the railing in front of him while making gestures clearly designed to give the pitcher essential advice, Sharyn pulled a band-aid out the bag and rendered a quick doctoring. Her husband looked at the purse. “Is there anything you don’t have in there?”
“I didn’t bring a surgical kit, so don’t cut yourself any worse than this.”
“How about gum?” He asked.
“Duh,” she answered, withdrawing a pack of Juicy Fruit.
The game moved into the 9th inning. Score still tied. This was it. Three outs and they would go home disappointed.
The first batter hit a pop fly into right field. Once chance gone.
The second batter took two balls before hitting a ground ball straight to the Golden Glove shortstop. Two chances gone.
The third batter watched two perfect pitches whiz by, then waited out three balls in a row. Full count. The crowd was on its feet.
Sharyn and her husband stood with the rest of the crowd, the sound made Sharyn’s feet vibrate.
The wind-up, then the pitch, then CRACK! The priceless sound of a bat making solid contact.
Sharyn lost the ball for a split-second in the sun, then caught it again to see it arcing straight for her.
And the one thing she hadn’t brought with her was a glove.
People were leaning in, hands outstretched, hoping to get their hands on the ball that would give them the winning home run.
Sharyn stood on her seat, open the zebra-striped bag wide and held it over her head. There was a soft whump and the bag tugged in her hands.
She pulled the purse down and looked inside. There, safely nestled between a spare pair of socks and the glitter lip-gloss was a regulation, major-league baseball.
And it was hers.
She looked up at her husband smugly, ignoring his open-mouthed, incredulous stare. “Now aren’t you glad I brought it with me?”
The people around them were cheering and patting her on the back and slapping her arm playfully.
“Hey lady,” said someone in the crowd around her, “I’ll give you fifty bucks for that purse. You can even keep the ball.”