I put away my phone and try to focus on the game. The inning ends. Bottom of the eighth and the Cubs have a chance to tie it up. Emily grabs my hand. “Say a prayer,” she demands.
I pull out one of my Dodgers key chains, kiss it, and hold it up to the heavens like a sorceress. The fellow fans around me clap.
I get a text.
Seth:Now it’s MY time to shine. Eat shit, Molly Marks.
Seth:God, ugh, sorry. My attempts at pro sports machismo are… ungallant. I take that back. Please don’t eat shit.
Seth:Unless you have pica or something.
Seth:Although actually you could still get dysentery so better not.
Molly:STOP
Seth:Yep. Good call. Stopping.
Molly:Anyway use your attention to focus on losing the game
Just then, none other than Javier Ruiz walks up to the plate, and my phone goes quiet.
“Strike out, strike out, strikeout,” Gloria is murmuring. The pitcher lobs a ball. Not ideal.
“It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay,” Emily murmurs like an incantation. “We got this we got this we got this.”
Ruiz swings and misses. Strike one!
We cheer.
Another strike.
We cheer harder.
“Strike him out!” I shout as the pitcher reels his arm.
We all hold our breath.
Ruiz cracks that fucker deep, deep into the stands.
“Goddamnit!” I yell. The fans around me moan similar sentiments.
My phone buzzes.
Seth:You know what? I spoke too soon. We’re definitely going to win this.
I can’t manage a sassy reply. I’m too stressed-out.
The Cubs don’t score again, and then the Dodgers are back up at bat. The whole stadium is taut with tension.
The first player strikes out.
I’m dying.
“Come on, Lanzinella,” Emily is screaming. “Tie it up, baby!”
The friends we’ve made during the game chime in with her. “Tie it up! Tie it up!” we all chant.
Lanzifuckingnella ties that motherfucker up, and we all lose our minds.
