Having a root-tootin' good time at the World Series: Game Four

 "So...do you want to see a World Series game with me?" Brad asked his daughter. There was a long silence from her end of the phone. "What's the catch?" she answered warily. "Well," Brad responded, "your going is contingent on your willingness to don moose antlers at my whim." "It's a deal," Savannah said, without hesitation which is how, one day later would find her grinning outside Citi Field with quite the conspicuous cap on her head.

Obviously, being left behind was a big blow. I've been a Kansas City Royals fan for days now so it was upsetting that Brad wasn't willing to mortgage the house so that his ENTIRE family could attend what could possibly be a once-in-a-lifetime event. "But don't they play baseball EVERY year?" I whispered to Sydney, confused, "Why is this such a big deal?" "And that is why you've just been cut from the roster," Brad explained. Sydney, though, still had a shot until...

Watching Escobar bat, Sydney excitedly asked, "Does he get two points for that?" Incredulous, her father sought clarification. "Two points for what?" "Two points for hitting the ball," she said uncertainly. The only thing for certain was that her chances for attending a World Series game were starting to fade. "Syd," I hissed helpfully across the living room, "I believe the correct term isn't points...it's runs." And suddenly...Syd was O-U-T.

Game 4. Brad reported that Mets fans were surprisingly gracious compared to our Play-Off experience in Toronto (where I was afraid to go to the restroom unchaperoned)...until the 8th inning where their 3-2 lead took an alarming turn and Brad became the focus of unrestrained wrath. "KC is a fly-over zone," one irate Mets fan yelled at my family. "What does that mean?" Sydney asked, steeling herself to be offended. Her father sighed, "Why are we sending you to college?" When Brad responded by extolling the virtues of Kansas City's world-renowned barbecue, he was told that the sauce tasted like @$$. "How would he know that?" I shouted into the cellphone as Brad gave us a play-by-play of the stadium shenanigans.

Don't get me wrong...I was happy for Brad and Savannah. I didn't want to see Tim McGraw throw out the first pitch. Who cares that Demi Lovato sang the National Anthem. I could care less that they watched John Cena organize and lead a chant for the Mets. Who needs to see Jerry Seinfeld? Not me! Who has wanted to take the subway out to Coney Island to enjoy a Nathan's hotdog for her entire adult life and it turns out they were selling Nathan's hotdogs at Citi Field and I wasn't there? Not me! (sniffle, sniffle) But did Brad have to go and catch a bag of Cracker Jacks for Savannah to snarf down without any thought whatsoever of her poor left-behind mother during the 7th inning stretch?

Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks...I don't care if I never get back! Let me root...toot...toot for the home team...

"It isn't root...toot...toot," Brad said in disgust, "You're not a little tugboat. It's root...root...root. And now you know why we left you at home." Fuming, I shouted at my husband, "Your daughter wears cardboard moose antlers!" He grinned, "Darn straight, she does."