Silverstaff: The only promotion that gets us to show up is fireworks night though.
Silverstaff: You can get tickets right down by the field for cheap, the players are giving it all they got hoping to be picked up by the majors, and around here about a dozen games a year they have a big fireworks show after the game.
Silverstaff: I happen to like minor league baseball, more than the majors actually.You can get tickets right down by the field for cheap, the players are giving it all they got hoping to be picked up by the majors, and around here about a dozen games a year they have a big fireworks show after the game.The times I've gone to MLB games, you're so far from the game that it feels like you need binoculars just to see anything. Might as well be watching on TV. You're paying more than twice as much for tickets that are less than half as good.Took the family to a minor league game last night, stayed for the fireworks. Was only 3rd row from the very front, and right down by home plate.Yeah, they have some bizarre promotions, but wacky gimmicks is part of the kitschy appeal of minor leagues. The only promotion that gets us to show up is fireworks night though.
rickythepenguin: Jack Kerouac bobblehead?There I stood in the batters box 60 feet and change away from the pitcher, white cowhide sighing in his hand, him staring at me like I owed him money and I thought of Dean, old Dean, proud old Dean, standing there in the dugout with flannel and he clapped his hands me getting lost in the clip clop rhythm, Dean shouting at me 'show them how to swing the shillelagh' and I did, muscles groaning in the twilight gloaming. "Strike!" called the umpire his words cutting through the coffee wine haze of the last gasps of summer as young lover sat in the stands him saying, 'let's play the baseball game after every pitch i'll kiss you on the strikes and you kiss me on the balls' the way young lovers do. Dean. Dean, the mystery of him surrrounding me "Strike 2" called the umpire. I stood out of the box getting signs from 3rd. Alan, the wizard, the mage, gyrating as his hands danced in the air flashing signs to me, Alan knowing that we'd traveled across the country drinknig wine in trucks that raced along the prairie searching for Dean and finding cold Denver mornings as we bounced from town to town living every breath as if life itself were racing out of our lungs dancing until morning and then New York, the streets breathing hot August steam as the ball came in and I swung and witha sickening crack of wood against leather that white ball flew through the air 425 feet and I danced around the bases visions of saxophones blaring through the night in bars in New Orleans where we found Dean dancing with mulatto angels and broke him back to New York and as winter hit I saw him last on 7th Avenue dancing to the music only he heard, shapes against shapes as trolleys limned through the copper gold phantom night as the goddess Poo Bear sprinkled stars in the evening. I think of Dean, Dean who dreamed the night into being and we won the game and I went 4/5 with 6 RBI.
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