I made my first trip down to glorious San Diego with some girlfriends over Memorial Day weekend. Nice place y’all got here. Imagine my pouting, though, when I was informed I had to spend Saturday night at something called a base-ball game.
I was digging in my heels and pouting something fierce, but I have to tell you, once I got a few pints in me and laid eyes on this fellow right here, all was forgiven:
HelLO, Kevin Kouzmanoff. Kome here often? (Sorry.)
This was right about the time I started hearing stories about these Giles brothers. Now, I know some girls dig a man who can hammer nails with his chin, but I personally find Brian to be a leeetle too cartoon-superhero looking for my tastes:
Marcus, though? Stole a base right in front of me, just to show off. New baseball boyfriend! Call me!
(I’m informed that’s the wrong uniform. Let’s try this:)
My underoos were on fire, but not for the last time that night. It got dark all of a sudden in the stadium, and the first chords of “Hell’s Bells” rang out in the night.
I find that I am utterly unable to resist a closer. Trevor Hoffman’s no Papelbon (who is? NO ONE), but he’s got a stare that could melt lead.
(NB: This is not that stare, but how could I not use this shot?)
After the game (I’m pretty sure “we” won–after they played the Hamster Dance in the bottom of the 5th I just drank to dull the pain and started cheering indiscriminately for every hit), they flipped off all the lights and treated us to a holiday fireworks show. This was actually a much more terrifying spectacle than you would think.
Oh, and this was the ballgirl, and believe me, this is a very flattering picture. Sweetie, if you can’t throw to save your life (and it would appear that you cannot), can you at least try not to be so surly?