The other day, my beloved living companion, Bonnie, called me at work and invited me to the Giants game. Apparently, her company, Gymboree, got a bunch of tickets somehow, and Bonnie grabbed us two. Having no idea who else from Gymbo was going, and quite frankly, not really caring, we threw on jeans and sweatshirts and cabbed it to Pac Bell. Upon arrival, we scoped the scene of thousands of baseball lovers entering the stadium and gave each other a knowing look. There were a lot of cute boys here, and not many cute girls. The odds were looking good.
Now, I’m not a sports lover. I’ll scream and yell and do the wave, but I’m not invested in who wins. I don’t know the player’s names or their stats. And, I really only applaud the good looking ones. But any event which combines libations and a ballpark filled with men is an event I’m likely to attend.
Our seats were practically in the blimp circling the stadium, we were so high up. We hiked to our section, and made our way to the seats. Um, wait a second. There are two really cute guys in the seats right next to us, and they’re already well on their way to drunk. We sit down, and share a second knowing look.
They are Butch and Rocco*, and they are hilarious. Butch is new to Gymbo, and as his lady-friend was unavailable, he brought along Rocco. Rocco is (…wait for it…) a porn distributor. I take a sip from my water bottle filled with Merlot. This is going to be interesting.
By the 5th inning, I’m freezing and tired of pretending to care about the game. Conveniently enough, Butch and Rocco are ready to leave as well, and kindly invite us to join them at a bar. With stifled giggles and many elbow nudges, Bonnie and I agree, and the 4 of us depart the stadium. Rocco has some dive bar in mind, and we follow him blindly for blocks until we reach The Eagle’s Lounge. The Eagles’ Lounge is much like it sounds, a relic of a bygone era. It’s the kind of place 1970’s Michigan union workers hang out in, complete with a juke box, pool table, and lone patron passed out at the bar. Bonnie discovered a cozy nook with a dart board and a few booths, and we set up camp.
Butch and Rocco went off to get drinks, and as the only wine available was airline mini-bottle screw top, I opted for a Vodka and Cranberry.
We then proceeded to play a very intense and competitive game of darts. (“You suck, Marin. You suck!”) Apparently, everyone else had been dart champions in previous lives, because comparatively, I did indeed suck. Who cares? We’re getting drunk with random cute strangers.
Suddenly, a tray of Jaggermeister shots was placed before me. Guns and Roses blared from the juke box. Butch began to dance. I am a bar snob, much preferring the sophisticated ambiance of Le Colonial to the duct taped booths of the Eagle’s Lounge. But I have to admit, this place rocked. Soon after, the popular catchphrase was coined, “What happens in the Lounge, stays in the Lounge.”
Hours later, we stumbled onto the sidewalk, clutching our companions yet knowing that we must leave them wanting more. After many hugs, phone number exchanges, and promises to do this again as soon as is humanly possible, they put us in a cab and waved goodbye. As we erupt into giggles, Bonnie looks over and says, “I love unexpected fun.” Well said, my morally ambiguous roommate. Well said.
* names have been changed to protect Bonnie’s co-workers.