urban dance

Yesterday was spring at its finest here in Minneapolis.  True, there are barely buds on the trees, but oh, the sun was glory.

Cooper and I had a date.  A long afternoon of revelling in play.  We walked from Minnehaha falls down to the river, we stopped at a most urban site for a quick dinner, and then we hopped the light rail to the Metrodome for a Twins game.

My man loves baseball.  I love him.  So I’m thinking the “if a=b and b=c, then the a=c” thing should apply.  It does, just not with the same fervor.  For the likes of me, the game on the field is (ok, meaningful) prop for the game in the crowd.  The play last night was thrilling. 

We were surrounded by Minnesota theatre:  The costumes, the set, the Scandinavian chorus, the lines, the music, the ritual foods, the drama and the comedy.

A pop fly came our way.  It bounced off the deck above us and caromed to an area two rows behind us.  I ended up with a foot slamming into my shoulder because a man two rows back launched himself into the air to score the ball for his child.  He did.  I have the tread marks to prove it.  And what did that child of about seven years of age do?  Once the drama subsided and bodies were untangled, he burst into sobs.  The bullet ball and the heroic leap and the glare of public scrutiny and the thrill of the hunt were too much for him.  Sometimes getting what we fervently hope for is more than we can take in, no?

A row in front of us was an Angel’s fan.  She seemed intent upon boisterously cheering for her team whilst in the midst of Twins territory.  She had a stuffed monkey Angel’s mascot that she danced through the air as she whooped.  Twins fans accepted her exuberance with grace.  Though I did hear some muttering about harm coming to that monkey….

On the light rail crammed with blue and red jerseys, I took up the muse of those of us who are aging:  “My, how times have changed….”  In a crammed train with people clinging to straps for stability there were two children of elementary age.  They were seated.  Around them were some advanced in their years.  When I was a girl, it was unthinkable that the young would not assume that the seats were best used by those who have racked up more years.  How do we as parents and teachers balance child-centered with child aware-of-others?  How do we as village raise our children to be aware of the village?

And there was this.  The Twins were getting slaughtered.  The lead of the opposing team seemed insurmountable and my sad man wanted to leave before the game was over.   That seemed so wrong to me.  We’d be quitters!  So we stayed.  And there was a grand slam miracle and the place went nuts and I thought thank God for crowds who show up and cheer for men who make obscene amounts of money to hit a white ball in order for us to enjoy community theatre.

It was a great day.

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