It happened and it’s been a long time coming. I knew it. The signs were creeping up on me like a slow reminder of my bad eating habits. This morning the scale confirmed what I already knew….I’m on the verge of being a fat b*****d.
One might be quick to blame it on mom’s mashed potatoes or dad’s homemade stuffing this time of year but I know the real culprit…way too many footlong brats at the ballpark.
You walk into the stadium and they catch you with their smell like water to a drowning man. You pass dozens of the “dealers” as you walk through the concourse to get to your seat. They sit there simmering in butter on the hot iron.
My name is Tom and I’m a footlong brat addict.
I’m not sure when it happened but I found myself making a footlong purchase part of the ritual. Had to have it, to make sure we won right…right? Had to, couldn’t let the team down. Once I even broke ritual and had a free Qdoba burrito before the game instead and you know what happened. We lost. Bad. Damn you footlong brat.
I watch in amazement as people enter the food lines gazing with starry eyes at all the selections. Rocky dog? Pretzel? Hamburger? For me my decision is already made up and I walk like a man on a mission. Get in, get out and get to my seat. Sometimes attendants are taken aback at my concise and quick order and most of the time they haven’t even gotten the sentence out, “what would..” “footlong brat peppers and onions please.” Just like that. Oh and yes I always say please. I can’t imagine all the cranky people they get going through those lines so I’m always quick with a smile and please.
I’ve only suffered one tragedy with the brat as I often order for others while I’m up. The ’07 NLCS game four I was handing my father his when he lost control of the monster and to the ground it went. Heartbroken, I could see the brat sitting on the hard concrete and I couldn’t help but give it a proper burial, put a napkin over it and slide it under the seat with the rest of the trash. Gone but not forgotten.
Karma was kind though. Opening day ’08 the credit card machine went down right as I was walking through the line and I only had enough cash for one brat. That elderly gentleman made the universe right when he took what I had and let me take the other brat no charge. Last years loss was avenged. No brat left behind. My father even knew how important never dropping a brat again was and he promptly two handed it to safety this time. Good man.
So here I am. Disheartened that the estimated 80 thousand plus calories of footlong brat from this last season has caught up with me and I’ve have a physical reminder of it. Like a love hate relationship, I hate you now brat o’brat, but when I walk again into the heavenly confines of Coors field next year I will forget my hate and embrace you yet again. I gotta do it for the team right…right?