The Ghost of Dave Niehaus teaches t8kitez about aoristic concidence.

The afternoon of April 8, 2011, sans ticket, after a light sushi lunch, I traversed a three-hour trip to catch a Mariners game with my pals. The day was bright and crisp. The drive was fast, the Windstar mighty and true.

I was glad to see my friends, most of all my bestie, a former roommate and co-"star" in several community theatre productions. Suffice it to say, I figured, since the game was sold out, I would end up drinking away the evening at a local sports bar whilst the kiddies enjoyed the game. Met the kidz at the Ginger Queen's apartment. We gathered our forces and went to the game.

We parked pretty far south of Safeco, so we could stretch our legs and take in the beauty of the surroundings, fenced-off parking lots, fast food company administrative offices and restaurant supply warehouses. We passed a meat cutter's shop with several hairy-shouldered and thick-handed men sitting and drinking on the loading dock. The pre-game chattered away from the radio placed upon a green plastic chair. I noted this locale in case I was not able to find a ticket and continued to the field.

I was kept making the "eye" at passers-by, looking for tickets, but I didn't see much goings-on until we got up to the main entrances, when the place got rather claustrophobic, even for a nice spring afternoon. Everyone was looking for a ticket and it didn't seem that anyone was selling. I told the kids they were cramping my style and to go on without me. The group split off, thinking they'd have to scrape my lush self off the floor of the Pyramid Ale concentration camp after the game and we'd all trek along to the karaoke bar which was destined to be the night Ender's game.

But as I was walking briskly to a bar I know that serves oysters on the half shell for fairly cheap, a man walked by with a fistful of tickets. He was on a cell phone.

"How much?"
He stops, looks as me. "Sixty."
"Where?"
"Left field."

I did a momentary calculation. Oysters. Baseball. Fuck it. "I'll take it."

I handed him the money and plucked a ticket from his paw and went forth to the fucking Mariners game.

I looked around in bewilderment and knew I would need a drink to fortify myself against this next effort. Two mini-bottles of cheap chardonnay in-hand, I followed the signs to Section 149, Row 31, Seat 10.

Right behind my friends.

Right fucking behind them.

For a second I stood at my seat, none of them noticed me behind them. They were busy drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade (the red ones...seriously, the doodz were drinking them- these people) and eating a pile of something. Something smelly. It smelled like I had fallen inside one of the pores of this hippy chick I know.

Garlic fries.

In the garlic fry-scented silence of the milling crowd and pre-game shenanigans, I watched them laugh and chat and I wondered if I had maybe been hit by a car and I was a ghost.

No such luck, Beard turned around and saw me and we howled our excited greetings. They asked where my ticket was and I pointed at the seat behind them and they all went on to express their own baffled amazement at such an awesome coincidence.

You don't get how awesome this is- there are, according to one of my more bearded pals, 48,500 seats. I think that's what he said, anyway. Regardless. There's a shit ton. Of seats. Truly, Dave Neihaus was looking down on my white canvas sneakers I purchased at ShopKo four hours prior in his honor and blessed me with such an amazing gift as a scalped ticket in a decent seat for a sold-out Mariners game.

Had I put such a sentence as together, in my mind, at that moment, I would have been able to understand the truth of what this night would bring. The first indication of this being a mixed blessing is that I forgot to bring a flask. But the folks I sat by were cool. One of the guys was a regular Bob Costas in dreds. He had his girlfriend en tow but she was trashed because, per her report, "It's the only way I can handle baseball." She was an adorable pocket-person, maybe five foot, maybe 90 pounds. By the third inning she was bored as could be and asked if I'd liked to have a smoke with her. I agreed and we left to smoke. She grabbed my arm, "I need you to remember how to get back to our seats..." she whispered to me in a low, conspiratorial tone. She nodded at her own conclusion and ferreted off into the crowd.

Outside she deftly rolled some American Spirit tobacco. I plucked a joint from my stash. "I've got grass, I'll trade you a drag," I offered. We smoked a bit, making nothing conversation and she looked around. A plan was brewing behind her dark eyes.

"I've got to pee."

"Okay, let's head in then."

"No, no.... the lines will be too long."

I could tell where she was going. Very well. "Let's do this thing." I pointed to the flight of concrete stairs. "The rail will block you." She turned to me.

"Give me a warning...if someone comes."

"That's the plan."

I leaned on the outside of the concrete railing and I heard her scurry up the flight of steps. We were totally in the clear, it was perfect and I started to contemplate peeing out here myself, because, as most country folk know, there's nothing, nothing at all as fine as peeing outside. But then a very well dressed woman walking a handsome lab started coming our way. The only thing out this way was the staircase so there was no doubt in my mind this woman was headed up them. I walked toward her, noticed I had half a jay burning in my hand, smiled, turned around, tamped it out and noticed:

A river of urine flowing down the stairs.

The urine was puddling at the bottom. Wow, two flights of stairs. That chick did have to pee. I didn't make very good work of slowing the woman down, she was deliberately avoiding eye contact and was making a wide berth around me, so I yelled, "Nice dog!" And really in the nick of time the little peeing goth fairy came around the corner buttoning up her black jeans. She smiled at the woman, "I really had to pee."

I think the woman was less interested in the puddles than her dog. On the way back in to the field you have to get your bags searched. I recently upgraded from plastic sack to promotional earth friendly grocery bag, free with my subscription to Mother Jones. It is nylon and cheap looking. Perfect. No one mugs this girl. Coach and LV bags are for suckaz. Anyway, I got forgot to tuck the little glass oregano jar I keep my joints and mahli in, back into my pocket and it was sitting loud and proud on top of my tampons and pilfered napkins and loose change. The security guard looked at me brightly, "You better not let them see that." He suggested. He waived his searching stick at the uniforms down the way. I smiled, "Huh?"

He laughed. "Be good, girl."

So luck was on my side that night. Luck was not on the side of the Mariners, who lost terribly. So terribly that my friends decided to leave before the end of the game. This sort of ruffled my feathers. When I pointed out we had collectively driven thousands of miles to be together that day, they shrugged. "They're losing" Beard explained.

"Of course they're losing," I replied. "They're the fucking Mariners. What did you expect?"

They didn't like my 'tude. I didn't like their flakiness. I didn't go to karaoke. Laying awake that night, watching the recap of the Mariners absurd loss, I prayed to Dave Neihaus. "Why? Why did this happen?"

Dave Neihaus appeared. He was wearing cut-off and white canvas sneakers. He was holding a frilly drink in his hand. "You rang?"

"Dave, you got me that great ticket! We were there for the game. We had all taken time off work, rented cars or gassed up our old minivans. We had purchased cheesy white sneakers. I had found a seat right behind them. What was the point?"

Dave sipped his drink. "My oh my."

"What?"

"That's a delicious Sex on the Beach."

I frowned, "Come on, Dave."

He laughed. "You know, you're a crabby bitch." There's really no denying this, so I made no reply. He took another sip and said, "Miracles only get you into the party, hon. You have to make the fun once you're in the door."
"You mean I should have gone to karaoke."
"You should do a lot of things. Like stop worrying about it and enjoy the fact you had a little miracle today."

"The ticket?"

He rolled his eyes. He glanced back over his shoulder. "Listen I gotta go. But yea, the ticket. And as my drinking poker buddy once said when he was alive, 'Buy the ticket, take the ride'." He raised his glass and hollered over his shoulder, "Yea, yea- I'm coming. Quit looking at my cards, asshole."

"Night!"

Did I mention that I got a ticket right fucking behind those kidz?