Once a year - and it seems like they always pick the hottest day possible - the local credit unions take their employees out to a baseball game at Autozone Park. The park reserves a section for us near third base, and there's food and booze. It's not free - the credit unions pay for it, and guests of the employees (spouses and children and such) cough up $50 apiece.
Last night was the night.
We parked at a pay lot about a block away from the park. Parking was $25.00, plus tax, for 4 hours. There was no attendant (that we saw); to pay the fee, one must figure out how to operate the self-pay station. There was a bar code to scan, and/or a code that could be texted, and a credit card slot. You should've seen us old people trying to work the thing. At some point, the system asked for a license plate number. You should've seen the number of people walking back to their cars to take picture of the plate number and come back to re-start the process. It took everyone several minutes just to pay.
With the fee paid, we walked to the ballpark, tickets in hand. At the gate, young people with cardboard squares compared the squares to the size of people's purses. If the purse was bigger than the square, it wasn't coming in. My purse, barely big enough to hold a cell phone and a pair of sunglasses, was about 1" larger than the square. Back to the parking lot we went. As I stuffed the purse under the car seat, I said to The Husband, "If a thief steals this, I'm counting on you to shut off my debit card!"
Back to the ballpark.
By this time, sweat is dripping into my ear canals. We wait patiently while our tickets and bodies are scanned. Twice. Finally, we enter the stadium.
Having had no lunch, I'm starving. We head straight for the food line. Barbeque and fixings await.
There is no server at the food line. We pick up our plastic plates and a packet containing a thin napkin and a plastic knife, fork, and spoon. There's a basket of hot dog and hamburger buns, still in bags. Everybody ahead of us has run their hands into the bag. Somebody ahead of me had probably touched my hot dog bun before I did. Everybody ahead of us has picked up the tongs and spoons in the serving dishes. I tear open my plastic-ware bag and use my own fork to dish up my food.
There are four or five picnic tables on the deck overlooking the field. They are packed with people, elbow to elbow. The Husband and I opted to take our plates to our seats rather than squeeze in at a table. We balanced them on our knees, trying hard to not drip barbeque sauce down our shirt fronts. The food was mediocre, at best.
Finally, the game started. At the bottom of the first inning, something went wrong on the pitcher's mound, and the game was delayed for 20 minutes while the problem was fixed. We sat through several innings, then went back up to the deck to socialize a bit. The home team was losing fairly badly, and it was getting late, so we decided to leave. On the way out, we stopped by the rest rooms. There was a sign on the door ordering us to wear masks while in the rest room for sanitary reasons.
REALLY?
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