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I attended my first Major League Baseball game last night. Yankees vs Red Sox. I had too much to drink. Barely remember a thing. I woke up with guacamole all over my pants and only three sloppily captured photos on my phone. I studied them intensely, trying with all my might to piece together even a crude memory of the evening.

I couldn’t come up with much, but I’ve concluded that: I was there. I was there. (I need to repeat that until it seems plausible). I was there.

Yes, I was there and, somewhere in my subconscious, under a dense fog of vodka-infused delusion, there’s practical data from the game recorded and properly cataloged. My Aussie mates might’ve carried me to my seat, or propped me up against an aisle railing, or carefully draped my limp body over a puddle of spilled Coors Light…who knows? The only thing I do know is: I was there, at the game–and, in some handicapacity, I’m sure I enjoyed it.

…that, and the Yankees won. Suck a dick, Boston.

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