Tailgate Longer

Dear Diary,

I have begun this process of documentation because, without it, I fear I would lose all grasp of reality. To put the conditions of my current state plainly: I am not well.

When I left for SoDo to take in the environment of a Seattle Mariners playoff game, I stupidly told my wife I would see her “later tonight.” That was yesterday. I should have known. They play so few of these games here that I thought it necessary to join in on the excitement before it dissipated. But I failed to consider an important fact: that what these games lack in frequency, they often make up for in length.

And so–having forgone buying a ticket and instead installing myself in a nearby parking area with my packed SharkNinja cooler, a grill, and a battery-powered radio–I find myself on my 28th hour of tailgating.

Amazingly, the ice still holds. But for how long?

Dear Diary,

The ice still has not melted, but provisions are low.

The guac I packed? Gone.

The brats? Consumed hours ago.

The vegetables that I hastily tossed in? Taken out, chopped upon the cutting board divider, and dipped into hummus.

If this game does not end soon, we will have to subsist on hazy IPAs and pigeon meat.

Dear Diary,

There was a runner in scoring position just now. The desperation that rose from my party was so thick, you could almost smell it.

We crowded the radio, eager for this runner to make his way home so that we could do the same. Only after he was caught stealing third and the game moved to the bottom of the inning did we realize the man played for the opposing team.

This is what the game has reduced us to: a people with plentiful ice and cold seltzer but a severe deficit of loyalty.

Dear Diary,

There were five in my party to begin with. But moments ago, a man in a suit showed up. He asked us each to roll up our sleeves. To the man with the thickest arms, he handed a piece of paper. What is it, we asked? A contract, the man said. Our friend would pitch the bottom of the 58th inning.

What about one of the starters? somebody asked.

Gone, said the man with the suit.

We were perplexed. You mean, they’ve already pitched, or they left, or they–

Don’t ask questions when you’re not ready for the answers, the suited man snapped.

With the contract signed, our numbers were reduced to four. We listened to the radio, hoping to hear our friend’s name, but we could no longer recall it.

Dear Diary,

Is it bad that I blame the SharkNinja cooler for this? Had it not been capable of holding temperatures of 40 degrees or lower for days, had it not possessed such expansive capacity, had it not been so compartmentalized, allowing me to easily organize our rations–had just one of these things not been so, I might have walked away a long time ago. But, because of its efficiency, I cannot. Not until ice melts or the final score is announced.

And I fear that neither will come in my lifetime.