Text 15176, 59 rader
Skriven 2014-07-25 15:40:00 av MICHAEL LOO (1:123/140)
Ärende: happy day finale 707
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It was still an hour before the gates opened, and even
though he could probably have got us through early,
he doesn't skirt the rules and instead offered to buy
me a drink at Henry's, where, intrigued by the name,
I ordered a small (with the plan of trying another of
the 100-odd drafts for my second round) Irish Death
(by Iron Horse in Ellensburg). This was described by
the waitress as like Guinness, but more so and turned
to be a hefty-textured rather hoppy dark coffee-scented
ale that bore little resemblance to that. I drank it
with some enjoyment both of the flavor (imperfect but
kind of neat, like me) and the alcohol content (7.8%).

Hap had some baseball cards that he was going to supply
to the hospitality staff to hand out to kids. He took
some spares and handed them round the bar to the
40-to-60-year-olds sitting there; they all seemed as
delighted to receive them as the designed recipients
would be.

He declined a second round, but I saw the North Coast
Old Rasputin Stout, a favorite, and had a short pour of
it for a competitive price (though Hap is friendly with
the concessions staff inside the park, he informed me
that the prices there are double what they are in real
life).

Inside, Hap went off to do some brief official duty,
and in the five minutes he was away an usher offered me
a baseball card. 

The Mets beat the Mariners 3-1 in a not unpleasingly
played game. Hap had predicted that Ramirez would have
a shaky first couple innings, and if he survived these,
he'd do okay, and if his teammates could come up with
just a few runs, he might even get a win. Well, he got
shelled in the second but then did settle down, striking
out the side at least once and at one time retiring
seven or nine in a row (I wasn't paying the closest of
all attentions). Sadly, the Mariners' bats were pretty
silent, except for that of my hero (?) Dustin Ackley,
who had a triple (maybe a double and a throw) and a
single. I understand that my other great white hope for
the team, Justin Smoak, has bombed out yet another
season and has been packed off to the minors. We left
a couple outs before the end of the game and had a
relatively empty train back to Tukwila, whence Hap
drove me the couple miles to my hotel. We said our
goodbyes, and I settled back into the bed, which despite
its peculiar shortcomings provided another acceptable
night's sleep.

Next day I was greeted by heavy rain. I'd planned to
walk the almost a mile to the airport but chickened out.
The hotel shuttle was welcome.

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