Back in the Saddle

• Cubs: 6
• Nationals: 2
• Sold: 129 beers, 24 waters, 13 nut/Crackerjack

With three full days of All-Star Break behind me -- having done no exercise whatsoever beyond reading the newspaper on the front porch, and having kept my belly full anyway -- I was tanned, rested, and ready for the second half of the season. For me, the second half began back in the crappy confines of Nationals Park.

Coming off of a very successful concert and three off-the-charts Red Sox games, there was among the vendors an energetic atmosphere that smelled of greed. I'm as prone to this as anyone, but I didn't get caught up in it this time around. Cubs are a good draw, but nothing like the inter-league Sox (or Yankees, either of which might not return to D.C. for a decade or more), and despite the enthusiasm, I never fooled myself into thinking this would be a 10-case night. And it wasn't. The crowd was somewhere in the mid-20,000s, drinking moderately, and I fell short of six. I took Bud instead of my customary Miller, and was turned down by one girl while I served her friends.

"I don't drink beer," she said. "It gives me gas!"

"All right," I told her. "Go and drink your glass of chablis."

Later on I passed her and she had what looked to be a cup of beer in her hand. I called her out on it. "What's all this? I thought beer gave you intestinal distress."

But I was wrong, it turned out. "It's called a Woodchuck," she said of the hard cider in her hand. "I don't drink your shit! Move on, asshole!"

Three more games of Cubs, and it's only going to get worse from there.