Bleeding Blue & Cool A Coos

You run back into the house frenzied. You're already late and you forgot your jacket. Good thing dad said something. You can't wait to get in the car, get on your way. The sun is that perfect spot in the sky that makes everything orange. It's a beautiful day, even a tripled would be okay. You're excited, but on your best behavior.  You knew you'd been blessed with the gift of going, but the promise of soft-serve, or maybe a Cool A Coo, kept you as cautious as ever. No mistakes.

The highway, the scenery, the hills all stream by without notice. You're too busy being mesmerized by Monday, or making last minute checks of leather straps, ensuring your success at any chance of a souvenir. A best friend compliments the folks and sis, and even for just a moment, life could get any better.

Traffic always compiles neatly nestled nearest the exit where all lanes converge. It's busy, and the audience cars surrounding in a stadium way. You're a veteran, not a chump and stay left to go right. You pass through the crowd and swim past a cop the shark-way and you've snuck up on it. You're parked, you won't remember where when it's dark, but you've arrived. The gang, excitedly wades through a sea of blue. You're lost and found two or three times. You wait in what seems a line for no reason, and Farmer John gives you a smile a whole foot long.

You're seated on the edge, the entire universe below. The only place to be. The seat, hard but perfectly comfortable. The sun, it's last stand you see through the eyes of waves. It's shadows, ever creeping further. The breeze, the soft breath of pacific resting for the night. For hours, that seem like minutes, you're captivated, excited, ever-fixed on the next pitch, at-bat, inning as you vicariously live or die with the ups and outs. You're down after the stretch, but with some luck and a bloom, you're sprinkles on vanilla capped. "You rally," I scream and it works again. You laugh at impossible, but can't help question if there's a higher power known as Superstition. You love El and Eh enough to put your windows down. You inch through the marsh of metal and red lights, and can't wait to do it all again.

It's ugly, but you're finished, or; gore done. It's a mop on your head but still well kempt. You don't know what you are, either this or ethier that. You could take a stream known as River A. Perhaps ride behind some reindeer, though on that, there is billing sleigh.  

It's time for Dodger Baseball...