My friends walk up from the other end of the bar and I join in on some rippin-on-the-sucky-tribe antics. I see the BB standing alone smoking and approach him for a light and engage him in conversation. Blahblahblah… first time to Jacobs Field. Blahblahblah… nowifenokids. Blahblahblah… from Detroit. You get the drill. He’s in town on business and his clients (ie: make pretend friends for the evening) are a bunch of no-fun-after-dusk middle agers (he’s 33). He comments that he has to find the Team Shop for souveniers to have something to expense besides beer and hot dogs. I tag along. Upon entry, he remarks how none of his clients want any Tribe apparel and that I’m about to be $200 richer in Indians’ merchandise. He says because “I’m nice” and took the time to chat up a non-local (without ripping on the Lions too much). Seriously. 12 minutes later, I’m the proud owner of a Sizemore jersey, crystal-studded wahoo wifebeater, hat, backpack… another set of indians tickets and a small side of guilt. Does it really pay to be “nice?” Oh, it pays all right…
He became my drunken stalker during the bewitching hour potentially ruining my chances of being seen in the Gateway District without the threat of scoffing and/or imminent bar removal. I can’t wait to go back tonight.
