We’re enjoying a visit of one of our daughters and, more important, two grandchildren. Our grandson likes baseball (he used to like trains, but not anymore) and so we went to a game between the State College Spikes and the Batavia (New York) Muckdogs. (Who names these teams?)
Don’t ask me what level of baseball we were watching. I stopped following baseball when Mickey Mantle retired. I’m clueless. If it’s not the Steelers, it’s not.
One of the players for the home team was a guy named Barrett Barnes, which led to a series of jokes from my daughter Amy. She knows I’m working on a photo project called Pennsylvania Barn Stories and her series of jokes played off Barrett’s surname.
The jokes got old faster than the game as the home team fell behind quickly. I was ready to go home if anyone else was, but they hung in there. The grandchildren and their father spent a couple of innings at the playground before returning late in the game to our seats behind home plate (5th row, no less). Our grandson fist bumped with Ike, the team mascot. (Aren’t you impressed that I know what a fist bump is?)
Lo and behold, the home team came from behind and eventually tied the game, not once, but twice. At 8-8, it struck me as more of a low-scoring football game than a high-scoring baseball game.
And so we arrived at the bottom of the 9th, two out, tie game and Barrett Barnes is the batter with a man on second. The barn story comments begin anew, with my daughter predicting there would be a barn story that night.
Hardly had she said that and hardly had I groaned than Barnes slammed a single into far right and the runner on the second came all the way around to score and end the game.
Jubilation on the field and in the stands and I got my barn story.
Thanks, Amy. And Barrett.