Bright
Lights & Chilly Nights
by
Anne
Marie Andrus
Setting
sun trickled through colored glass, illuminating mirrored letters behind the
bar until LEGENDS sparkled like lost gold from an enchanted city.
The bartender brazenly whistled off key and polished curved mahogany with a
vintage rag. According to the calendar, autumn was still two weeks away but last
night he felt “it” for the first time this year. That fleeting bite of a rogue
breeze and rustle of dying leaves followed by a whiff of fragrant firewood. His
favorite season was right around the corner—exciting and bittersweet—ruthless
and glorious, all at the same time. Baseball was more than a game; it was a way
of life that lasted from February all the way through October. Only one team
would win their final contest and then silence would descend until next season.
Behind
the bar, numbered beer mugs hung from pegs. The bartender glanced over his
shoulder at a still empty parking lot and picked out the prized #7 and #42 mugs
for two regulars who would arrive first. Always gleeful Yankees fans. Grumpy Boston
#34 would be close behind followed by perpetually hopeful Mets #31. A lucky few
would be in attendance at the big ballparks in October. The rest would be on
bar stools watching their teams pack up lockers and lug golf clubs through
private airports while arch rivals padded win-loss records and secured coveted
home-field advantage.
The
bartender eyeballed bottles of top shelf bourbon—the perfect elixir to calm
nerves that would be frayed moments after the roar of the pre-game flyover faded.
As players waxed poetic about fan appreciation and stadium acoustics, experts sounded
alarm bells over statistics and injuries. Lifetime baseball addicts agonized
over traveling ghosts and whether the powers of aura and mystique would be
making a nightly appearance. Despite all the famous curses being broken, from
The Bambino to The Billy Goat, dread of the jinx never really vanished, it
merely slunk into the shadows ready for ambush on a supremely pivotal play. Innings
would crawl by, pitch by agonizing pitch, unless the home team was losing of
course…then it seemed to get late early. A wise quote
from a true legend so many years ago.
Outside,
music blared and tires screeched to a stop on loose gravel. The bartender
waited for the door to slam open before he shouted. “Most important pitch of
the game?”
“Strike
One.” Mug #42 tossed her auburn hair back and slid into her usual seat. “Most
exciting two words in sports?”
The
bartender picked up the TV remote and grinned. “Game Seven.”
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