I had a pretty boozy night a couple of Saturdays ago, and didn’t get to bed until around 5.30 a.m. The next day, the Diablos Rojos had a doubleheader beginning at noon. If you do the maths, the answer is “never in a million years am I going to arrive on time.”
And that was the case. I woke up, had coffee and some bread, put on last night’s clothes (mmmm, delightful) and traipsed to the subway.
I arrived at Foro Sol around 1.30 p.m., top of the 5th inning. It was the last regular season game, and it was pretty busy. I went to the section I usually sit in, and saw the beer vendor who I see every game. He was, like, “where the fuck were you?” He said it with a smile, shook my hand, put his arm around my shoulder and pointed to the ass of an attractive woman walking by.
I told him I had a hangover, I got a Coke from him, and took a seat.
A while later, he was bringing drinks to a family near me, and I asked him for another Coke. He came over, quizzical concerned look on his face, and asked why I didn’t want beer, did I feel bad? I told him I felt like shit.
He gestured and said “one minute” and hurried off to talk to a guy sitting a couple of sections over.
He came back holding a small plastic Canada Dry ginger ale bottle. It had about an inch of liquid in the bottom. “Drink it.”
It was tequila. And, damn it, if I didn’t feel better straight away. Maybe it was the tequila, maybe it was the fact that someone who is paid to work at the baseball stadium took the effort to do something so friendly and thoughtful.
I thanked him, and ordered a beer. He told me I didn’t need to thank him, “you’re my brother” and slapped me on the shoulder.