I fall in love a lot at the ballpark. It’s probably the booze or the lights or the summer heat or the sheer joy of the game or the booze or quite possibly the booze, but it always seems that around the eighth inning of any game at Fenway, I’m professing my love for someone, anyone (female) within arm’s reach.
Good thing I’ve never encountered the vendor pictured above, the subject of a cool photo commentary in last Sunday’s Globe. Or I’d surely be hanging in shackles.
People who know me when they see me at the ballpark are actually surprised. I do it to differentiate myself as a vendor, to maybe get a little bit more attention. You don’t need to be getting attention when you’re selling hot dogs. They’re looking for you. I do it to entertain the fans, I guess.
As my grandpa used to say, a woman who works at the ballpark and can carry beer on her head… that’s someone you marry.
Gramps knew his shit, folks.