LinkExchange Member
|
Wrigley Field The Great American Pastime The Slayer's quest to have a beer in every venue humanly possible recently took him to "the friendly confines" of Wrigley Field. This grand old ballpark with its bleacher bums, ivy laden walls, and Harry Carey is a great place to be entertained while quaffing a few cold ones. The Slayer found the ballgame to be a nice diversion from his never ending search for the "beerman". "Beermen," those elusive peddlers of malt beverages, continuously strolled down the steps of the stadium. Unlike their vendor cousins in other stadiums, the "beermen" of Wrigley Field were unusually quiet. Even though the ever-present mantra of "B-u-d-WEIS-er, get your ice cold B-u-d-WEIS-er" was absent from the stadium ambiance, The Slayer found the brew at Wrigley to be as cold and satisfying as any other stadium. The Slayer found that there is a definitive art to ballpark beer garnering. With hundreds of people trying to have a brew bestowed upon them, the "beermen" are like bartenders at an enormously large pub. The only exception being that they cannot physically reach all of the patrons that need to be served --nor can their attention be on one for any length of time. It is a must -and a challenge-- to grab their attention in any manner possible. The Slayer found that many people familiar with the artform of stadium beer service used a high-pitched obnoxious whistle to make the "beerman" turn his head their way. The Slayer, being a mere novice to stadium beer procurement, did not have the training to perform the act of whistling with the journeyman aptitude of his fellow fans. He had to rely on the call of the stadium novice, "Beer, give me a beer." The Slayer found that even this familiar call did not guarantee the delivery of a malt beverage. With so many others making similar sounds, it soon became evident to him that the capitalistic banner of money must be unfurled in conjunction to the beer-call. A quick learner, The Slayer began to stand up in front of his seat yelling for beer, waving various amounts of currency in his hand as he did so. This would make the "beerman" turn his head as if he had been beckoned by some intoxicating mating call. Even though the battle for his attention had been won, the war to have the beer placed in The Slayer's hand raged on. Once the "beerman's" attention had been grasped, The Slayer still had to fight to make eye contact with the keeper of the beer. This was not as easy as it might seem. For others, seeing that he had turned his head in their general direction, attempted to garner a cold malt beverage for themselves before The Slayer. The difficulty of the act of receiving a beer was also enhanced, for The Slayer, by the fact that he was seated in the middle of the row (his non-beer drinking brother bought the tickets). The Slayer would not be denied his brew. He, with the antagonizing aggressiveness of a New York cab driver, made the vendor of cold brew catch his eye. Once his gaze was captured, The Slayer held up one finger--indicating he only wanted a single beer. Still, The Slayer's work was not done. Seeing the finger and making sure it was not the middle one, the "beerman" nodded his head in recognition of the age old signal. He then proceeded to pull out a can of Budweiser and pour it into a large wax-lined paper cup. The Slayer, seeing the gloriously fluid movements of the "beerman", lunged toward the aisle to receive his much sought beverage. Alas, The Slayer's arms were too short and his legs were too old to nimbly shuffle past the maze of bodies and feet between him and his nectar. A sudden panic went through him as he saw his beer being tauntingly held just beyond his grasp. Then something miraculous happened. Just as The Slayer was about to resign himself to being thirsty, the hand of one of his fellow rooters shot out and grabbed the five dollar bill from The Slayer's hand. At the same time a fan clad in Cubs attire snatched the beer from the grasp of the vendor. For a brief moment The Slayer thought that he was going to be both parched and poorer. Suddenly, the beer began to move toward him in a relay so polished it should be an Olympic event. The fiver made a similar procession in the opposite direction. With great care, the beer appeared in The Slayer's hand. Moments later the change, a single dollar, was also returned to him. An overwhelming feeling of love for his fellow man enveloped The Slayer as he sat back down --beer in hand. Even though he was a gentile and not an ardent Cubs fan, these wonderful people seemed to empathize with The Slayer's need for a cold beer. Once acquainted with the fine art of stadium beer garnering, The Slayer began to practice it with the confidence of a master. Over the next four innings, three more beers were placed in his hands. In fact, it appears that The Slayer exhausted the section "beerman" during the course of the game. By the seventh inning, he was replaced by another fellow. This new vendor did not possess the same grace and pouring skill of his predecessor, but was an adequate replacement. It appeared to The Slayer that he had probably been recently promoted from peanuts or pretzels. All in all, The Slayer's Wrigley Field experience was a good one. Even though the beer was only domestic lager, there was something magical about drinking it in the stadium. The smell of the grass, camaraderie of the fans, and Harry Carey croaking out "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" in his familiar phlegmy beer-soaked voice made this a memorable day in the life of The Slayer. |
||
|
Would you like to have the Beer Slayer on your web site with a new article every week, for only pennies a day? Of course you would! |
Home |