Yup.
I don’t ask for a lot, I never really have. Throughout the past week or so I’ve been watching the Tigers tease the Twins with the AL Central crown. The Twins would lose and the Minnesota faithful would lose faith, but then the Tigers would cough up a game to the Royals. For four days I watched this, each day resigning myself to the AL Wildcard with a sort of satisfied dissatisfaction. I didn’t totally crush out my hopes for a divisional title like I do my Pall Mall butts, but I figured I should stop smoking once I hit the filter otherwise I might burn my fingers. I attended two games during this nerve racking week, both of which resulted in Twins loses. I felt bad when I left the baggy-like confines of the Dome, somehow it was my fault that they couldn’t grab the division with the Tigers stumbling down the stretch.
One of these games was the opening game to the series against the White Sox on the final weekend of the regular season. They got down early, and stayed down for most of the game, so my mood was slipping from hopeful to demoralized when a man sits down next to me. The powder blue Twins jersey should’ve sold me on this man, but it wasn’t until I noticed what he was holding that I realized what had just stumbled upon me.
“Holy fuck, man! What the hell is THAT!?”
He looks at me like I’m from Mars and simply states, “well, this here is a Chicago dog son. Add cheese sauce.”
Add. Cheese. Sauce.
It was like magical words to my ears. I mean, I’d heard of a Chicago dog, stuffed a few into my face on more than one occasion as a matter of fact, but add cheese sauce!? At that point I lost total interest in the game, I was focused on the man eating the Magical Glory Cheese Dog next to me. I was having a hard time fathoming its existence.
Well, I wasn’t the only one who noticed it. A couple of older gentlemen in front of us started babbling incoherently, then kept trying to get my hotdog-holstered friend into a conversation. He wasn’t biting, at least at their attempts at talking. His mouth was busy with other things.
After a few meetings with the local beer man, and a couple more innings of less-than-encouraging baseball, my processed-meat eating neighbor made a comment. “Bhlhat Phbil blebin ish proddy fet.” I could do nothing but agree with him as I was mid guzzle on my Budweiser. The older gentlemen sitting below me made a few golf jokes about some of the swings the Twins were taking, to which I had to role my eyes. When I did, I caught another glimpse of greatness in the act.
The man had gotten half way through his Meal for Kings, and still looked fairly lucid. He looked like he might be struggling a little bit, but not too badly. When I asked him how the cheese sauce was, he looked at me, grinned his big grin, nodded in approval, and got back to work. I’ll take that as a big time yes. Big time.
Mid way through the 5th inning I get a little hungry, so I grab myself a bag of peanuts to go along with that half inning’s beer.
“Hey, cunnah ghat schaum pen ahts?”
“What?”
He swallows the bite, takes a couple pulls of his MGD and starts again.
“Can I get some peanuts, y’know, for the dog.”
In awe, I can do nothing but give the man my bag of peanuts.
“Thanks man.”
No problem sir, I can’t even begin to fathom what’s going to happen next, so I turn back to the game. It’s not looking good, but that’s okay, we still have tomorrow night. I’ll be sad to lose, but that’s okay.
Then I get the tap on the shoulder
“You want a bite? I mean, you gave me the peanuts, so it’s the least I can do. I mean, they ain’t as good as the roasted almonds, but they add some crunch anyways.”
Speechless, I stare at this man with blank eyes, mouth ajar, unable to wrap my brain around what he just said. Not as good as the roasted almonds!? He gives me a moment to answer, shrugs his shoulders, and has himself some more dog - with a little crunch this time.
Phil Nevin strikes out badly to end the game and my boys go home losers, but the man sitting next to me did not. He won.
Big time.
