Worst Date Ever

In an effort to be an adoring wife I planned a celebratory dinner for Eric post finals and portfolio hand-in. I put "dinner" on the calendar so he knew we were "busy" but what I didn't mention was that I bought some Red Sox tickets on the sly.

Saturday came and before I headed to work I spilled the beans. I couldn't hold out until the actual game cause, let's face it, I wouldn't have actually gotten us to Fenway without getting us lost. And we wouldn't have been wearing our Red Sox garb...

The day itself was crazy hot and humid but the night cooled off and was perfect. It was packed and we had great seats. Our fancy dinner was hot dogs, fries, seeds, and gatorade. Not much in the culinary realm, but it definitely had a celebratory flair.

By the 9th inning, the guys on my right were crazy drunk and the Sox were down by one. People had started leaving--and then Saltalamacchia was brought in for the last out of the game. And what did he do? Hit the ball straight to us. I'm serious. While I ducked for cover Eric reached up and got three fingers on it. Too bad the other fingers didn't make contact--they just deflected the ball to the man two rows back. But it was definitely a rush.

We left the park with Eric chanting "worst date ever."
I think it was code.

That's right. That is the bull pen. We were on the 7th row. 

Does he look happy? I think he's happy.
But then again I'm making him take another picture...

I'm learning how to spit seeds...and really they were
all just stashed in my upper lip because spitting is gross.