Instead of sitting in front of the tube watching my favorite baseball team decimate the Toronto Blue Jays, I decided to take the family out for some real baseball.
The warm temperature and Hadlock was calling to me. This was to be my daughter's first Sea Dog game.
At nearly three-years-old, I did not know exactly how the evening was going to go.
As we headed up I-95, my daughter states quite innocently, "I'm sure all the kids will be excited that I'm coming."
While laughing, my wife and I had to agree with her.
That confidence was less evident as we entered the ball park through the turnstiles.

The hustle and bustle of eager fans slowed my energetic toddler a bit, though she excitedly pulled at my hand towards the direction of our seats.
We sat ourselves along the third base line, so close you could smell the cut grass.
Ruby's curiosity got the best of her and the waves of questions cascaded in my ears.
"Who's that?" "What's he doing?" "Why did he throw the ball there?" "What's his name?" "Who's the blue man in the mask/"
Though none were directly about the sport, I couldn't have been more proud. I answered each and every one to the best of my ability, trying not to get too far over her head.
In the second inning, she asked, "Where's Big Papi?"
"He's in Toronto playing with the Red Sox."
In the third, "Where's Manny?"
"Well, honey, he's with Big Papi."
"Oh." she said almost disappointedly. Then it dawned on me: her ability to connect with the Sea Dogs without those catchy nicknames may be difficult. There was no Coco, Tek and Youk.
Instead, I explained who Suarez, Dobies and Crozier were. She nodded in the hopes that I would not continue.
The Trash Monsters were a big hit. Funny how such a small thing can mean so much in the eyes of little people.
Crozier's grand slam was a big hit too. That shot not only gave the 'Dogs the lead, but the sight of the lighthouse and "fireworks" added to her excitement.
As the game continued, my not-so-shy little girl made friends with ushers, trash monsters and of course the wonderful vendor who handed her the Sea Dog biscuit. She had gathered a foul ball and Slugger baseball cards from various staff.
But after the third inning, Ruby's focus turned to Slugger.
Having seen him off in the distance and hearing me discuss meeting him, she wanted nothing else. I told her how busy he was; how many people he had to see. I assured her that indeed she would get her chance.
As the innings passed, she screamed when prompted, yelled "Charge" after the trumpets blew and clapped in unison with thousands of others.
She had asked about car window's getting smashed by spheres that had lost their way to the diamond.
But still no Slugger.
I, too, was beginning to wonder.
We had seen him along the first base line earlier sitting with fans, lounging. We had seen him lose yet another race during the "challenge" and spotted him among luxury boxes. But where was he now?
"It's OK, honey, he'll be dancing on the dugout soon; you'll see him then."
But the dugout dance never came to pass. No YMCA?
Her disappointment grew with her tiredness.
"I want to see Slugger."
But Slugger never made it to our section.
It was getting near time to go and I had no explanation for his apparent absence.
"Perhaps he's sick." "Perhaps he's tired and had to take a nap." "It's a long night for him, he has to play two games."
Not knowing, the excuses left my mouth weakly. She accepted the illness.
"I hope he's OK." and soon after "I want to go home."
And with that, we left.
The Walsh family and the Sea Dogs had recorded a 'W.'
We successfully witnessed six innings of a seven-inning, night game. Cheers!
Next time, I hope Slugger is feeling well.

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