(Back by popular demand every baseball season…and it is time for the World Series)
Take me out to the ball game, Take me out to the crowd. Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks. I don’t care if I never get back.
Let me root, root, root for the home team If they don’t win it’s a shame. ‘Cause it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out At the old ballgame. –Take Me Out to the Ballgame
It’s baseball season and time for the World Series! So, it’s back! Back! Back! Gone!
It is out of here! But where did it go? Not the homerun baseball but those delicious cheese nachos! Someone took them! Someone stole my cheese nachos!
America’s favorite pastime evokes images of The Boys of Summer, hot dogs, fireworks, and the Mystery of the Missing Cheese Nachos.
I cannot think of any situation with higher stakes than when someone steals your cheese nachos.
Have you ever had something stolen where you see the likely suspect, but you do not have solid proof? Do you confront them? You know they will deny it no matter what. They might even be severely offended.
I needed proof! The guilty needed to be exposed and punished. Who stole the cheese nachos?
This mystery became legendary! I danced on the edge of danger! It was baffling, strange, creepy, and frustrating–the mystery, not the dance.
It combined suspense and comedy. The late inning caper climaxed with a shocking End!
Let’s go back to the beginning as we follow this true story and the investigative revelation of the shocking suspect.
The major league baseball park was electric as we watched my kids’ favorite team. The summer vacation was punctuated with this big finale. A pro player tossed a baseball to my daughter. She was thrilled. My sons got pictures of the star players. We were on target for lifetime memories.
Oh, the sights and sounds! The souvenir baseball caps. The crack of the bat. The roar of the crowd. The fireworks. The boo birds.
My three kids learned some new language not normally heard on our Sunday ventures. Two highly intoxicated fans had a shout-off contest. “Ken Caminiti is a weenie.” (The third baseman made a couple of errors.) “Mike Bielecki is a weasel.” (The pitcher had a rough outing.) Back and forth. The raucous duo found unity in an extended rant, “The umpire rocks,” or something like that.
In one of the middle innings, I took the kids to the concession stand for some mid-game snacks. I returned with my arms full and my wallet empty. I carried drinks and hotdogs and popcorn and some cheese nachos. As we repositioned our seating alignment, we passed out the refreshments. Lots of happy faces.
I was having the time of my life watching my kids enjoying their baseball park hot dogs just as I did many years ago when my dad took me to my first pro baseball game in St. Louis. Let the contest begin. They savored the hot dogs rather than snarfing them down like Joey Chestnut, the world record champion.
The crowd was roaring and the hot dogs were steaming as I settled into my seat. After all the food was distributed, I could not find the cheese nachos.
The nachos had disappeared. I thought I had placed them at my feet below the seat. I asked each member of the family. I searched everywhere. I racked my brain.
Did I leave the cheese nachos at the concession counter? Surely, not.
I looked down. Nothing.
I checked beside my seat. Nothing.
I peered under my feet, leaned forward, and even looked at the fans behind me. The nachos had vanished without a trace.
Naturally, I suspected foul play.
Two gentlemen seated beside me had been suspiciously quiet throughout the entire inning. Now they were laughing as one enjoyed his cheese nachos. Were these guys nacho thieves?
I gave them a sideways glance and then an accusatory stare. These dudes looked like professional snack bandits.
Do I confront them? Cause a scene? Embarrass them and my family?
I whispered to my wife that the fans on our aisle had stolen my cheese nachos. She told me to let it go. I couldn’t.
IT WAS THE PRINCIPLE OF THE THING. I COULD NOT LET THIS GO!
WE ARE TALKING ABOUT BASEBALL PARK CHEESE NACHOS!
My fixation was momentarily halted as my favorite player was in the on-deck circle. A home run would change my mood.
Suddenly, my younger son needed to go to the restroom. He said he could not wait. Seriously. Wait until this next guy bats. That was cruel enough, but then the opposing team decided to change pitchers. Apparently, the opposing manager could not wait either. My son was hopping up and down. It was time to go.
The restroom trip with my son was not the best timing. However, it did not include a missed home run by my favorite player. He struck out while we were away.
THE IMPORTANT EVENT WAS THE SURPRISE DISCOVERY OF THE MISSING CHEESE NACHOS, UNEATEN BY THE RUDE FAN TO MY LEFT.
THE CHEESE NACHOS MAGICALLY REAPEARED WHEN I ROSE FROM MY SEAT TO TAKE MY SON TO THE RESTROOM.
My wife tried to quietly get my attention. She kept pointing at me. Then shouting my name. Now that we have everyone’s attention, “What?”
Miss Marple had solved the mystery. This feline detective had unraveled the case. The super sleuth could not control her laughter as she continued to point in my direction.
MY BLUE SHORTS WERE COVERED IN CHEESE NACHOS!
Yep, I sat down on the missing cheese nachos. They were stuck to the backside of my blue shorts!
The chips were crunched to crumbs. The cheese had somehow expanded in size and volume. I began to feel the unmistakable sensation of gooey, lukewarm cheese oozing through my shorts. The ripple of humorous horror began to spread through our section of the stadium. My backside looked like a modern art canvas.
My daughter screamed. My older son shouted. My wife hung her head in uncontrollable laughter. My younger son was pulling at my hand with a sense of urgency.
The fans behind me were dying with laughter. Some wiped tears from their eyes. The next row of spectators pointed and giggled. One group gave me a standing ovation. Thankfully, this incident preceded I-Phone pictures.
I had spent the better part of a baseball inning investigating the nacho caper conspiracy. Now the culprit had the evidence spread all over the back side of his blue shorts.
Oh, it was quite the comical sight for all the spectators as I walked up the stadium steps. I tried to avoid eye contact. I dripped nachos and cheese sauce all the way. A dangling jalapeno was a nice touch. It was a real crowd pleaser.
The cheesy mess brought new meaning to the seventh inning stretch.
There was no way to recover my dignity. The crowd entertainment was not over. The embarrassment only worsened.
I spent the next inning standing in the restroom area in my underwear as I washed out my shorts in the sink. Yes, several people wish they could erase that image from their memory bank. Primarily, me. The blow hand dryer was also helpful for this occasion.
My son was extremely embarrassed. He acted as if he did not know me. You cannot imagine.
I tried to ignore the looks and the laughter from the exiting crowd of onlookers. Somehow, Mr. I Don’t Like to Talk to Anyone felt the need to explain to people what I was doing. “Sat on some cheese nachos. Just washing them off.”
My red face and linen briefs continued to startle the men and kids scurrying to catch a break between innings. “Daddy, why is that man standing in his underwear and drying his hands?”
Immodestly dressed, I greeted more strangers in the men’s washroom that night than I do in a month of church fellowships.
Guys started handing me their mustard-stained T-shirts as if I were the men’s-room attendant. The jeers echoed through the place, “Caminiti is a weenie.”
You never know where you will meet new fans.
I guess each of you has misplaced something at one time or another. It can be frustrating not to find the object where you are sure you placed it. You always put it there. Somebody moved it. Someone hid it from you. Hey, it could be worse! At least, you can keep your pants on!
Have you ever lost your Love First button? Maybe, you were engaged in some favorite activity when the interruption came. Perhaps you were in the last stages of finishing a project or solving a problem when the other person insisted on your attention. Or maybe you just wanted to finish the movie.
In some moments, our well-intentioned love first and love most plans suddenly disappear from view. Our frustration grows as no one helps us. The other persons are more interested in getting their way or having their say.
SO, YOU GIVE UP THE PLAN TO LOVE FIRST AND LOVE MOST. INSTEAD, YOU BLAME OTHERS FOR THE MISSING LINK. THAT USUSALLY ENDS UP IN A MESSY SITUATION.
Egg on the face has a similar result to sitting on cheese nachos. Everyone notices. Embarrassment and hurt are not good buddies. Negative attitudes and angry words are never the best way to start the parade.
We live in a culture of chronic complainers. There is always something to grumble and gripe about. The line is too long. The traffic is so congested. The gas prices are too high. The fast food is so bad. The ice cream serving size is too small. The day is too hot; Walmart is too crowded. The concert fan in front of us thinks we bought tickets to watch her dance and sing.
And would someone please tell that poor sucker that he has cheese nachos dripping from his blue shorts?
Here is a Love First classic for all of us looking for the cheese nachos. It comes right out of the #1 Textbook. Do all things without grumbling or complaining. Do not have a negative attitude and do not use negative words. In ALL things.
Love expresses gratitude and grace. Gratitude is thankfulness for all the many God-given cheese nachos blessings we tend to forget about. Grace is the God-given desire and power to love first and love most in ALL things…even missing cheese nachos.
I WISH I SPENT AS MUCH TIME IN MY LIFE COUNTING MY BLESSINGS AS I HAVE SEARCHING AND BLAMING OTHERS FOR THE THINGS I DO NOT HAVE OR LOST…LIKE MY MISSING CHEESE NACHOS.
I am making progress. I truly desire to make a positive impact in this life. If that is my goal in ALL things, then I need to lose the negative attitude and words.
I want to expand my Love First and Love Most vocabulary. I am praying that gratitude and grace replace my grumbling and complaints.
“Play Ball!” Our family has heard that shout many times throughout the years. I can assure you that each season, someone remembers to shout, “Where are my cheese nachos?”
I confess I remain a little sensitive to the subject. I have nightmares about trips to the ballpark concession stand. The server looks at me and asks, “Would you like some cheese on your blue shorts? With chili or jalapenos?”
‘Cause it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out
At the old ballgame.
