It Was the 3rd Inning...

And as I drifted in to the kitchen for a glass of Riesling, I heard the announcer say "Seven to One, Cubs."

"Richie - what inning?" I cried.

"Third" he replied.

"So, everybody can go home now, right?"  (Eager dog look - begging for a treat.)

I received a sneering, dismissive glance that might have felled a lesser woman, but, c'mon - 35 years together?  You really think that was the first time?

I hate baseball.  For years it has been as exciting as watching grass grow or paint dry or an illiterate checker give you change when the cash register computers are down. 

I ruminated on what it is that I find so absolutely abhorrent about TV baseball games and the other night it dawned on me.  I was about to start tearing my hair out (while reading a book) because I kept hearing that ghastly "Doodelee-oop-de-doo..." one key up, "Doodelee oop de doo" always on the next higher note.  Bats were falling out of the avocado tree, writhing in agony.  No less I on the living room couch.  The wheeze is as unattractive in organ ditties as it is in an old folks home.

As it is not my wont (not misspelled) to whine without offering a solution ... join me in this.  We start saving up airline miles (Do it - winter's coming on - BUY that floor-length mink!)  and transferring cash around like a Mafia accountant so that just before the season begins, we can be assigned territories nearest our home bases (don't waste miles) and personally go to every stadium that has an organ and offers televised baseball games.  We will, of course, have looked up the organist performing in "our" stadium so as to know the best bribe likely to keep them off of the organ bench for an entire season.  With minimal cost, of course. 

This may sound like an odd scheme coming from a woman whose mother played the organ in church, BUT she was playing Bach and Handel ... and not at a baseball game! 

We'll be ready for sign ups soon.  Keep watching this space.