Like many small towns, we love our minor league baseball here, and I was lucky enough to land a job working in the front office. Since we’re a small club, some of my duties extend to outdoor maintenance, and I am always grateful for the opportunity to be outside to watch the games. Game days are always special; the air is filled with the smell of roasting hot dogs and the sound of future ball players yelling, “Hey batter, batter, swing.” On one afternoon, a particularly threatening sky didn’t do much to dampen fan enthusiasm, but the eventual rainfall told me there would be a delay. I knew our ground crew was a bit short staffed and would need my help pulling the tarp over the turf. I’m not necessarily a strong woman, but I’m pretty fit and thought I could be of help, I mean it’s just a tarp, must be like making a bed, right? Little did I realize that “man down” means nothing when it comes to covering the field, in fact, every man for himself seemed to be the prevailing motto.
In a downpour, I found myself at the upper end of the tarp, smack in the middle dragging it across a soggy field. The rain was pummeling down, the turf was slick and SPLASH, down I go, losing my grip and instantly being covered. Well, imagine what’s running through my head, “should I just stay put and maybe no one will notice?” or should I inch my way through and out an inconspicuous corner?” I decided the latter was the most sound choice (we do experience flash flooding and getting swept away to save what little dignity I had left didn’t seem a good trade-off). As I was just about to make my escape, confident I was only inches away from going unnoticed, our announcer shouts, “MARCO.” What choice did I have? Out I flew from underneath the tarp hearlding, “POLO.”