A ballpark estimate on drive-times, ticket pricing, seat location, and walking distances

We had LOTS of options. We could have spent Saturday night in a lovely hotel. We could have skipped brunch and just shot to arrive at the very reasonable game time of 1:30. Or...we could wake up at the butt-crack of dawn to make our trek to Toronto. 

I'll give you three guesses which choice was selected.

When I wasn't snarling at my husband or hate-texting Katriel (who had the AUDACITY to just shoot back a heart icon while still snuggled happily in bed for the next foreseeable hour or so), I was admiring the fluorescent pink sun as it rose. Seeing my semi-interest, Brad said that the color might be affected by the Canadian wild-fires. "Figures," I muttered.

Katriel and her friend, Dan, had lots of helpful advice for getting the Mosimans safely to Toronto. We received text reminders to bring our passports, questions about whether my phone plan (that housed our baseball tickets) included Canada, and, when Katriel assured me my EZ pass would work on any toll lane when I sent her a picture of the QEW sign to let her know where we were, Brad turned to me to ask, "Do they think we're complete idiots?" I laughed and assured him that they were just being nice. "No," Brad grimaced, shaking an accusing finger at me, "This is your fault. This is because you got lost last week while FOLLOWING Katriel to that restaurant."

This would be that same man who, later at brunch, came head-to-head with the space stun gun meant for billing transactions and immediately became economically immobilized. We'd closely watched our friends successfully tap ("Tap! Tap!" So cute. So fun! So easy!) their cards and happily move on with their lives. When it was our turn, we tried aiming the gun, waving the gun, shaking the gun...we tapped our card flat-wise and, in desperation, on its edge like in the movies when they cut cocaine. Katriel intervened at this juncture, wrestling the stun gun from our sad little grip, quickly gave the server a well-deserved 1,000% tip and rushed us from the restaurant. "My fault?" I whispered as Dan effortlessly scanned our game tickets for entry into the stadium at the self-serve kiosk. "We could have done that," Brad argued, as we were swept into the swell of sports fans entering Rogers Centre, before sheepishly admitting, "It would have just taken us a bit longer."

My anxiety about going to this Kansas City Royals game in Toronto turned out, of course, to be unfounded. A Play-Off game here years ago had left me slightly traumatized...so that along with our current political relationship not being exactly neighborly as we debate over, among other things, if a cup of sugar borrowed, results in an equal cup of sugar returned (Don't even get started on borrowing the lawn mower!)...had me hesitant about what to even wear. BOTH teams are blue so the stadium is ridiculously monochromatic. I decided on blaze orange so (a) my daughters might be able to spot me on TV, (b) I wouldn't bolt if someone gave me some good-natured ribbing not realizing I'm ridiculous in this environment, and (c) I didn't want to invite unsolicited commentary on politics. So, at the butt-crack of dawn, I debuted my initial outfit. "You look like a little tiger," Brad remarked diplomatically, proudly wearing his team colors on not one, but TWO shirts. I frowned and stomped away. I had carefully watched the previous night's game in Toronto and had noticed that the stadium vendors all wore orange. I stared in the mirror as I wrestled with my inner conflict. In the end, it came down to who I wanted to be aligned with...ultimately deciding: My man. My team. My country. I quickly changed into Royal blue.

We had a WONDERFUL time. The small amount of trash spotted, I'm sure, was put there by Americans. Dan could be a member of Canada's Olympic Power-Walking Team as he hustled us about. He patiently indulged my desire to sit on the second level of the train, bought us each gallons (liters) of water to stave off dehydration, and heroically suppressed an epic eye-roll when I got slightly hysterically when I read the ingredient list of the ice cream treat he kindly provided for us included spiders. "It's not arachnid," he told me calmly, "It's arachides. It's French for nuts." Though he valiantly attempted to hide it, his face clearly thought that more than just the ice cream was nuts. 

Katriel insisted on introducing us to a Beaver Tail.

Oh. My, Goodness. Hello, Beaver Tail!

Think fried dough but crispier and in the shape of a beaver tail and loaded with a host of fabulous toppings.
Brad and I shared chocolate pistachio while Dan and Katriel got the much-less-messy cinnamon-topped version. I gleefully rang the bell at the shop, marking this culminating event of a first time Beaver-Tail-taster. Dan and Katriel primly consumed their pastry like adults while Brad and I gnawed away at our order like we were taking out an over-sized oak. We toppled that treat like the wild, woodland animals that we are.  At this point, Brad and I just gave up and resigned ourselves to the role of "children" for the remainder of the day.

Brunch was at a darling restaurant with outdoor seating so I could enjoy people walking from a safe distance...well, we thought it was safe until an impressively unkempt woman broke away from the crowd (to their relief) to curse us in her indecipherable language ("Are you sure it wasn't French?" Dan asked when he returned to our table.). "I think it was English," Katriel said, "The poor woman was dealing with some questionable dental work." "To be fair," Brad added, "it might not have been a curse at all. She could have been bestowing a blessing or offering directions to the stadium."

It turned out to be a curse.

My avacado toast arrived. Oh my. What was that artistic garnish? A wonderful sort of sweet cream? Dan frowned, leaning in for a closer look. "I thought you said you DIDN'T WANT the poached eggs?"

Ewwww!

Katriel sighed and cut a generous portion of her pancakes for me.

The game was fantastic! Rogers Centre has an amazing retractable roof. "Katriel," I complained, "Go see someone about closing it a bit. I forgot my hat (and my sunscreen and my chapstick...)." It takes 20 minutes to close AND could easily contain Lady Liberty...pedestal and all. The game was fun to watch. Bobby Witt Jr. executed a quick-thinking play, throwing to Salvy instead of making the easy-out that ran right by him...effectively stopping a run and setting up a silly Three Stooges maneuver between third and home that had me giggling for the rest of the inning. Vinnie demonstrated his long-legged splitting abilities as he stretched to snag a throw to first, missing the out by milliseconds. I became a huge fan of the Blue Jays' first baseman, Vladimir Guerrero, Jr. First of all,  he rocks an awesome first name. He's built like a catcher but slides like a shortstop. When he first stepped up to bat, I noticed he paused to make some sort of design in the dirt. That got me curious so I made sure to make note of all of his at-bats and, yup, sure enough, Vladimir continued the practice. I looked it up. The Canadian/Dominican player was spelling out "Dios." God. Fan for life. 

As opposed to the man behind us, mad at something, yelling, "Jesus Christ! Show some respect." Brad glanced at me, surprised when I laughed at this. "That's called well-intended irony," I told my husband.

The game went to extra innings with the Royals edging out the Blue Birds at the end. I love learning new things (and forgetting them seconds later)...I didn't realize that there was a rule that placed a runner on second during over-time to reduce the possibility that the game drag unnecessarily on beyond my already limited attention span. Very helpful. 

Dan and Katriel were not ready for our fun day to end. Still full of energy, they were busy brainstorming other activities but I couldn't hear them because I was busy counting the steps out of the stadium, into the bus depot, down to the platform...fiercely concentrating on NOT falling...not caring WHICH level of the train I sat on...shuffle-jogging to keep up with Dan's Olympic gait...and I spotted a Canadian squirrel. The suggestion of soup dumplings definitely caused me to pause (and catch my breath) but Canada had tired my poor little American ass out. I was ready to go home to my country. And my couch.