"ICCCE COLD BEER! ICE COLD BEER! LAST CALL FOR ICE COLD BEER!"
The repetitious cry sounds out above the prevailing background noise—a calm multitudinous babble. It comes from a stout black man with a large red cooler strapped to his chest. He's standing off to the left, at the end of an aisle of seats. The aisle is one of hundreds that have been tiered together to form a huge open air stadium. Each one is lined with spectators of all genders and ages, the majority garbed in variations of white with black pinstripes. There's not an empty seat in the venue.
Overhead, a few wispy clouds edge their way across an azure sky, and the sun shines down with perfect warmth.
Below is an expanse of green, scarred at the nearside by the white and brown of a baseball diamond. More people in white with black pinstripes are arranged around it, tossing a ball to each other in an orderly but relaxed fashion. From the mound, the pitcher is hurling another ball across an unprotected home plate. The thud of that ball hitting the catcher's mitt can be heard in the highest terraces.
Ahead, an immense video scoreboard is showing a vapid commercial for a local Harley Davidson dealership. Beside that is the incoming team's batting lineup, and along the bottom is the zero-riddled box score of the seven innings that have already passed. A closer inspection of these JumboTron graphics reveals that the New York Yankees are playing host to the Boston Red Sox. Which possibly explains the sell-out crowd packed into The House That Ruth Built on this balmy summer afternoon.
Indy nudges Raph's arm. "Last call. You need another?"
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2006-12-04 10:22 am (UTC)The repetitious cry sounds out above the prevailing background noise—a calm multitudinous babble. It comes from a stout black man with a large red cooler strapped to his chest. He's standing off to the left, at the end of an aisle of seats. The aisle is one of hundreds that have been tiered together to form a huge open air stadium. Each one is lined with spectators of all genders and ages, the majority garbed in variations of white with black pinstripes. There's not an empty seat in the venue.
Overhead, a few wispy clouds edge their way across an azure sky, and the sun shines down with perfect warmth.
Below is an expanse of green, scarred at the nearside by the white and brown of a baseball diamond. More people in white with black pinstripes are arranged around it, tossing a ball to each other in an orderly but relaxed fashion. From the mound, the pitcher is hurling another ball across an unprotected home plate. The thud of that ball hitting the catcher's mitt can be heard in the highest terraces.
Ahead, an immense video scoreboard is showing a vapid commercial for a local Harley Davidson dealership. Beside that is the incoming team's batting lineup, and along the bottom is the zero-riddled box score of the seven innings that have already passed. A closer inspection of these JumboTron graphics reveals that the New York Yankees are playing host to the Boston Red Sox. Which possibly explains the sell-out crowd packed into The House That Ruth Built on this balmy summer afternoon.
Indy nudges Raph's arm. "Last call. You need another?"