You might recall that a couple of weeks ago Mary, Lucy and I went to Ohio State to watch the Ohio State women play Army. We bought tickets to the company’s suite as part of a fundraiser for the United Way.
It was a Sunday afternoon game – my favorite.
As a young man I used to go Sunday afternoon games at Olympic Stadium in Montreal on a fairly regular basis.
The Sunday afternoon Tourists’ games at McCormick Field in Asheville are greatly missed.
There is nothing like a cold beer and a handful of peanuts in the sunshine at the ballpark.
When we got to the Schottenstein Center about half hour before the game started. Our box is located right across the concourse from a full bar and about three boxes from a big concession stand.
We only had a small lunch, so we headed to the concession stand as soon as we got settled.
Lucy got a hot dog and Mary and I decided to split a plate of chicken fingers and fries. Out of habit, more than anything else, I ordered a couple of beers (even though all they had was Budweiser draft at $6.50 a glass).
When I got back to the box, I handed Mary her beer and set mine on a table in the lounge area of the suite.
The game started and I sat in the seats in front of the box and cheered on the Buckeyes. About half way through the first half, Mary asked me if I was going to drink my beer.
I looked over my shoulder at the beer sitting on the table behind me.
“I don’t think I am,” I said.
Now, I am a bit of a beer snob and there have been a few times (but not too many) that I have turned my nose up at mass-produced, domestic lagers. I would rather have a bitter, hoppy, small-batch ale anytime.
But, this had nothing to do with my beer snobbery. I just didn’t want it.
I haven’t had a beer since I went to see The Swell Season in Columbus on Sept. 22.
I guess it would be a record, if I was trying to set some sort of record.
Is the second 50 years of my life going to be without beer? It seems implausible.
