Well Seated

I love Baseball. I love it more when my son , Joe Fisher, AKA Mans best friend, goes to games with me. He is my favorite ball player and the one person I am most likely to ask to pick out my nursing home when the time comes.

 At the Braves post season game, yes, the one that the Braves lost and what resulted in Manager Bobby Coxs LAST GAME, we found quite an entertaining aside from the intense baseball contest that netted the San Francisco Giants an opportunity to go kick some Philly Phillie buttocks.

if anyone has ever been to a sporting event this has HAD to happen to you....


I get to my seat at a Ball game and ALWAYS....ALWAYS...find my assigned seat and sit down. Then the latecomers show up, and their seat assignment tucked away in the deep recesses of their memory....they plop their butts down in any open seats and all is well...I know, the usher knows, and the Lord knows-- that they are eventually going to have to get up and move.

An inning or so later, these folks embark on a food run and return armed with

a cardboard tray full of nachos, foot longs, a beer in a souvenir cup.....only thing is while they were gone the rightful heirs to the seats have shown up and placed their behinds in same.

The debate ensues.


"Are these your seats?", the food and beverage laden ones ask.

"Yes", replies the paid for in full and we had a hard time parking occupants.

"OH", says the Souvenir cup holders, as they pass the trays of hot dogs to

the smallest of the group while they begin to dig into their pants pickets

for their ticket stubs.


Joe Fisher, AKA, Mans best friend, and I, sit one row removed and observe

nonchalantly. I know what seat to which my narrow rear end belongs. I got

here when I was supposed to and made sure I had the correct seat. I am 48

years old, and no novice to sporting events, the least of which is Baseball,and If i have never done anything else in my life the right way I have damn sure found the right seat at a ball game.

But I know what's coming.

I can see it. Ray Charles can see it. If the Jumbo tron were on us the entire nation would see it.

Souvenir cup, or "SC", as I call him, looks to me and the conversation that I knew was coming I am now thrust into....

SC: "I believe you're in my seat"

ME: "Fraid not, hoss" ( I already have my hand on my ticket stub and pulling


it from my pocket)

SC: "You sure?"

ME: (showing my ticket stub and pointing with my left index finger when I


really wanting to be using my middle finger to show him what I think of his


failure to execute the right seating arrangement)

"Section 136, Row 25,seat 106 and 107....."

SC: (long pause as he looks left, right, skyward, and then back to me)

SC: "You're in section 138...."

ME: "No I ain't..."

SC: "Isn’t this section 138?!?"

ME: (and entire row behind me who have joined my crusade in unison)

"SECTION 136!!!!!"



Joe Fisher, AKA mans best Friend: "I BELIEEVVEEE there's a sign back there

that tells you the section....." (Kudos to my buddy for the 18 year old


sarcasm.....it was the twist of the knife--)



SC: "Oops...my Bad...Sorry"



And with that, he and his other three buddies leave to the throngs of those

in section 138...maybe they could get him where he needed to be. Maybe all

who wander are not lost, but this fellow was. And it’s a good thing, because he had sat directly in front of me, his bald head reflecting all 331,000 lights of Turner Fields scoreboard. Had he stayed I would have been forced to get a black magic marker and color underneath my eyes like the players do to cut out the glare.....

Baseball. Fathers and sons. and those that cannot find their seat. At the end of one, its no runs, no hits, on one error.

This is AMERICAs Pastime.... Amen. (Dad and Joe shown above in their CORRECT seats)