Donut

I met Matt outside the stadium. He gave me my ticket and we walked through the gate. “Take Me Out to The Ball Park” blared over the speakers. Ross and Heidi appeared with beers in hand. “Let’s go in,” someone suggested. Joking, I said, “All I ask for is not get hit in the head…” Ross looked at me and laughed. “You set the bar awfully low.” It’s true. I’d made a joke about it to dispel a real worry. When we sat down twenty rows up directly behind home plate, Ross noted that I had a good chance of not getting hit. The batter swung and missed. He foul tipped the next pitch down the right-field line. The next pitch, a fastball, he fouled straight back, over the net, up into the stands behind us. “Damn,” Matt mumbled. Ross looked over me. The next pitch careened over the net too, slammed into the roof, and rained down hard about six or seven seats to our right. The woman sitting below us had heard our jokes and turned to face me. “You’re gonna have to move if this keeps up.” She was smiling. I assured her I would. The next inning was much the same; the ball sailed over the net four or five more times. I ran into the woman during the seventh inning stretch, and she put two fingers to her eyes then flicked them at me. I’m watching you. I bought myself a beer then an Asheville Tourists hat and went back to my seat. People were chanting “Donut! Donut! Donut!” hoping to win No Hit Inning, the night’s promotion. The pitcher retired the side in twelve pitches.