It’s another beautiful Saturday and I can once again be found at Wrigley Field. A bunch of friends and I had bleacher tickets, and man was it a hot one that day. The only way to cool down was to chug beer!
After the game my friends and I did a bar crawl of sorts and ended up at the classy joint Sluggers. Given my stumbling and double vision I figured it was the perfect opportunity to go upstairs and show off by playing some games.
My eye-hand coordination is sub par when I’m sober, so you can only imagine what it’s like when I’m drunk.
I decided my first victim would be the skee-ball machine. As I started rolling the balls up the ramp I realized they are not going in where I’d like them to go in. Well, I knew how to remedy the situation: I proceeded to gather all the balls up in my arms, jump onto the ramp and race up it, and start violently slamming the balls in the coveted middle circle (high points!). One of the Sluggers employees ran over to me waving his arms like he was an air traffic controller, requesting that I get down.
Not only did I get down, but I proceeded to jump off the ramp as I twirled into the sky. Triple salchow!
Considering I was very close to getting kicked out, my friends suggested we hit up the batting cages. The only better addition to the alcohol+midget combination is a steel bat! I promptly put in my coins, stomped up to the plate and took my stance.
The first few pitches shot out and, to be honest, I cannot remember if I even made contact, but I do remember thinking that whatever I was doing was not grand slam material. So I choked up on the bat and inched closer and closer to the plate.
Actually, I’m pretty sure I was on the plate at this point. Then, all of a sudden, WHAM! I get hit with the ball! At this, I was furious. Who did this pitcher think s/he is???
I began cursing this evil pitcher as I waved my bat in the air and raced to the “mound” in anger. I’ll show this punk pitcher what Leigh is made of!
My friends started shouting at me, “Leigh! Leigh! It’s a machine, it’s a machine!” I realized that in man vs. robot I probably would have no chance and sulked back to the plate.
I was so drunk I thought there was an actual person pitching, that they hit me on purpose and therefore required a swift steel bat to the head.
The kicker? After this happened I disappeared for some time but then re-appeared with never-ending baskets of fries, mozzarella sticks, quesadillas, etc. My friends were quite confused about how this magic happened, as they had my purse and I disappeared with no money.
God only knows what I did to get this delicious food. Sigh.
I had to refuel, though, for the second inning!
Moral of the Story:
If you suck at baseball sober, you’re probably not going to be any better when you’re drunk.
If anyone sees me stumbling the streets of Chicago, there is probably one thing you should never, EVER put in my hands – a steel bat. I will likely show off my ninja skills and either render myself unconscious when attempting to use it as a nunchuck or likely destroy and terrorize small children and/or dogs.
I pity da’ fool!