The score was 1 to 4, and the Colorado Springs Blue Sox lost to the Sacramento River Cats. A man a row in front of me diligently filled in box scores, keeping up with the plays silently (except for his complaint that he needs to wear glasses).
Another man behind me yelled from the stands as if he were a coach separated from his team so that he had to holler key plays to his team. Go Burns; stay. C”mon Peterson, next one’s a strike. He called out their names: Barton, Martinez, Buss as if they could recognize him as well.
But no matter how hard we chanted “Let’s go Cats!” or how often we rose out of our seats as part of the wave circulating the stadium, we remained the audience, and, from the stage, these players could not even distinguish that it was Super Hero night and that a handful of us came in costume.
With the summer night cool enough to make us want to linger and with a winning score, the fireworks show was a cherry on top. A thoughtfully choreographed display, it featured hearts and fountains and all kinds of wondrous light.
A toddler, who’d been asleep since the seventh-inning stretch, woke in amazement, filled with joy.
shewhodaresnothing 