You ever notice that it's a lot harder to get into Philly than it is to get out? The high heat disabled a number of vehicles, especially along the Surekill Expressway.
Despite purposely avoiding liquids for two hours before leaving, we had to pull over along the Surekill, not because the car was disabled, but for a disabled passenger. Me. I had to go, and go I went. I waved as a large number of cars greeted me with their horns. Shit happens. So does piss.
As hard as it was to get to Philly, we got into the stadium quite easily. No security checks or wanding, perhaps a concession to the heat.
I told my grandson and his girlfriend that there was no way the stadium would fill up because of the heat. By the end of the first inning, the house was packed, a sea of blue and red despite 97-degree temperatures. To make things even hotter, the sadists running the stadium flipped the lights on right before the game started.
Usually raucous Philly fans were tamed by a scorching sun that converted seats everywhere into saunas. They were more like the burners on a stove running on low, burning bare flesh when people sat down. None of this bothered me because I already spend lots of time with Lucifer.
Alcohol flowed freely. People chose to hydrate with hard lemonade and Budweiser as opposed to water.
Seated in front of us was a guy I'll call Mafia Man. His Rudy Giuliani hair dye began bleeding out onto his sweat-soaked blue Hawaiian shirt as the game progressed. He had two quite attractive women, each of whom spoke different languages, draped on each arm. They talked through the national anthem. He and his doll collection did not last long, but they were great fodder for conversation on the way home as we tried to solve Mafia Man Mystery. I think they were due at Bada Bing.
Two rows in front were a young couple with a young son whose face got more and more flushed with each inning. They eventually left, looking very unhappy. I asked a woman seated near them if the young man was ill, but she said they were in the wrong seats and she apparently ejected them. I thought that was a little mean-spirited since no one ever sat there.
Behind us were a group of young men who came, not for the game, but the frickin' Riley Green post-game concert. He's waiting for the second return of Jesus and wrangler jeans. Country western music apparently has a following in Philly.
Periodically, a Bryce Harper foul ball zinged a few feet to our left. When they came, they were at such a velocity that I'd never try to bare hand it. I value my hand too much. His hits that day seemed to be sprinkled with magic dust.
When the bombs came, the sound of the Liberty Bell was ominous. I expected the Undertaker and Paul Bearer to pop out each time.
After the game, we went to a pho restaurant in the Vietnamese section of the city. (Washington Street). The pho at Bethlehem's Pho Bowl is far better. They let their broth simmer 12-15 hours, and it explodes in your mouth.
We stopped by a bubble house for dessert. My grandson and KT got avocado smoothies. I opted for a taro waffle. Probably the only thing healthy about it was the name taro, but it tasted great.
The game and trip to Philly were a wonderful gift from my grandson and his girlfriend. Might be the best time I ever had at a game, excepting those in which Dat himself played.
