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Expos-Giants Game, September 2, 1988
Sep. 2nd, 2009 07:05 amIt was Alain's idea, when he saw all the baseball books on her desk, that they should go to an Expos game. Meg has never paid all that much attention to the Expos, or to their opponents (the San Francisco Giants) because she generally doesn't pay much attention to the National League until the post-season.
But baseball is baseball, and there's a lot to be said for being at the stadium, for the atmosphere, for being able to watch what you want and not what the broadcasters decide to show you. And it's good date, not that she's ever had a bad one with Alain.
Meg is not sure what to make of Stade Olympique -- she's never been to a game in a dome before. The metaphor she comes up with is that it's like watching a baseball game in a lunch box. (She'll have to get used to, she knows, as the Blue Jays are moving to the SkyDome next year, but for now it just feels . . . odd.) The stadium feels mostly empty, too, with attendance far below its capacity.
Alain gets her settled into their (admittedly quite good) seats, and goes to get food. When he gets back, he finds Meg copying the Expos starting line up onto the scorecard in her program.
"Meg, ma belle, are you taking notes?" Alain asks.
Meg laughs, and shakes her head. "I'm keeping score."
It's entirely possible that the existance of a system of score-keeping for spectators is why baseball is her favorite sport. You can write down everything that happens in a three-hour game on a single sheet of paper, in a shorthand of K's and 4-3's and F8's and SB's, in diagonal lines and hatch marks. Meg's father taught her when he started taking her to games, and at home she has a folder full of scorecards, a record of every game she's ever attended.
(She is also kind of taking notes, but mental ones, about what the umpires do and how. It's what she does, when she needs to figure something out -- researches, and takes notes. Lots and lots and lots of notes.)
It's a wildly lopsided game -- Meg's scorecard shows three runs for the Expos before the first inning is over, and ten by the end of the game. It never shows any for the Giants.
"It was a good game," Alain says, as they're walking out.
Meg shrugs. "I guess. I like it better when they're a little closer."
"Our team won," Alain points out.
"Your team won," Meg says, laughing. "My team wasn't playing."
She's not ready to claim the Expos. She'll root for them, when in Montréal do as the Québécois and all, but they're not her team.
"Splitting hairs," he tells her. "Did you have a good time?"
"I had a marvelous time," she tells him, completely truthfully.
"Then it was a good game," he tells her.
Meg smiles. "Yes, it was."
But baseball is baseball, and there's a lot to be said for being at the stadium, for the atmosphere, for being able to watch what you want and not what the broadcasters decide to show you. And it's good date, not that she's ever had a bad one with Alain.
Meg is not sure what to make of Stade Olympique -- she's never been to a game in a dome before. The metaphor she comes up with is that it's like watching a baseball game in a lunch box. (She'll have to get used to, she knows, as the Blue Jays are moving to the SkyDome next year, but for now it just feels . . . odd.) The stadium feels mostly empty, too, with attendance far below its capacity.
Alain gets her settled into their (admittedly quite good) seats, and goes to get food. When he gets back, he finds Meg copying the Expos starting line up onto the scorecard in her program.
"Meg, ma belle, are you taking notes?" Alain asks.
Meg laughs, and shakes her head. "I'm keeping score."
It's entirely possible that the existance of a system of score-keeping for spectators is why baseball is her favorite sport. You can write down everything that happens in a three-hour game on a single sheet of paper, in a shorthand of K's and 4-3's and F8's and SB's, in diagonal lines and hatch marks. Meg's father taught her when he started taking her to games, and at home she has a folder full of scorecards, a record of every game she's ever attended.
(She is also kind of taking notes, but mental ones, about what the umpires do and how. It's what she does, when she needs to figure something out -- researches, and takes notes. Lots and lots and lots of notes.)
It's a wildly lopsided game -- Meg's scorecard shows three runs for the Expos before the first inning is over, and ten by the end of the game. It never shows any for the Giants.
"It was a good game," Alain says, as they're walking out.
Meg shrugs. "I guess. I like it better when they're a little closer."
"Our team won," Alain points out.
"Your team won," Meg says, laughing. "My team wasn't playing."
She's not ready to claim the Expos. She'll root for them, when in Montréal do as the Québécois and all, but they're not her team.
"Splitting hairs," he tells her. "Did you have a good time?"
"I had a marvelous time," she tells him, completely truthfully.
"Then it was a good game," he tells her.
Meg smiles. "Yes, it was."
