I never remember my dreams. Never.
This one was different. When I woke up today, every vivid detail was painted on my brain. I feel it's my duty to warn you that what you're about to read is one of the cheesiest, most insipid loads of misty-eyed garbage you'll ever waste your time reading. I'm not even sure why I'm documenting this because to do so is to surely invite derision and good-natured ridicule but I feel strangely compelled. That being said, it's time I set the scene.
I can still smell the air. An ocean breeze brushed wafts of beer and garlic fries past our faces, a smell I've encountered only at PETCO Park. I was sitting next to a beautiful young gal I know, one who in reality is mercifully oblivious to the slight-but-none-the-less-pathetic silly schoolboy crush I vaguely harbor; our seats were a couple rows behind the first base dugout, close enough to see Li'l T's smile in the on-deck circle before he strode to the plate. I don't know who we were playing or who was on base. I do know that when TGJ dropped the first pitch into shallow left-center, somebody scored and the place went nuts- except for two people. We sat there calmly as Buck-O-Nine blared from the PA, the most genuine smile across each of our faces and clicked the necks of our Dos Equis bottles against the other's. End scene.
I'm certainly no psychologist so I don't know what to make of it. It was simply to me a respite from a world where the Padres always lose and I'm like a fourteen year old for someone way outta my league. For one moment, life was perfect... and I'm just happy I got that one moment, no matter how unreal it really is.