May 23, 2006
I went to a Nationals game Friday night with one of my friends in Arlington. The Orioles fans made their way down from Bawl'mer to cheer for their lousy team over our lousy team, so we wound up in the nosebleed section -- the 500 level, about a dozen rows from the back of the stadium.
Roundabout the fifth inning I decided it was time to un-beer myself, and I did what the unofficial code of the ballgame requires -- wait until the end of the half-inning, or at least the at-bat, before climbing over a row's worth of people to get to the aisle.
Then the pitcher decided to start throwing pick-off throws to first base. And the batter figured now would be a good time to start fouling off pitches. Meantime my eyes were starting to turn yellow.
The at-bat finally ended, and I made my way down to the concourse, forgetting in my haste that the steps in RFK's upper deck are about 1.5 times as tall as a normal step. My right foot continued past where the stair should have been, and glanced off the edge of the step that was there. I took a seat, hard, on the edge of the step above it. After assuring the ushers that I was fine, I continued about my business.
When I got home I discovered the 5-inch-long, inch-wide bruise running horizontally across my right cheek. Sitting down recently has been, shall we say, less than pleasant. And lest you think that this was a result of anything other than clumsiness and being in a hurry, I can assure you that a pair of Bud Lights are nowhere near enough to get me even remotely buzzed, let alone staggering drunk.
But that doens't mean my rear end doesn't hurt.
