Foul Weather Fans

Before I booked parking for the baseball game last night, I checked and double-checked the weather forecast. There was no chance of rain, not even a pop-up thunderstorm. And so, as we crawled along 395 on our way to cross the 14th St bridge, the foreboding skies meant nothing to me. 

"Check the app," I said to Heidi when she expressed her concern, and sure enough? At Nats Park, there was no rain forecast. 

Even so, the trip, short in distance but long in time because of Friday evening traffic, was only beginning. And when fat raindrops began to sploosh against our windshield as we took the Capitol Hill exit to wind our way to our parking spot, I was still not alarmed. And then I got the text: weather delay. But it wasn't actually raining at the ballpark, so optimistically, I parked the car, and we walked the three blocks to the stadium, confident that the game would begin shortly. 

But the minute we walked through the gate, the skies opened. Still undeterred, we dashed to the merch store and spent half an hour perusing the gear. Lots of other fans had staked out floor space, though, as if settling in for the long haul. We hadn't eaten, and decided that a circuit of the concessions on the main level would be a good way to kill some time. 

As soon as we made it to cover, though, we recognized our error. The wide hall was packed shoulder to shoulder, and it seemed like most of the other patrons were college-aged kids in red, white, or blue t-shirts emblazoned with the slogan His Legacy, Your Voice. They were all from the Turning Point USA leadership conference. 

It took 40 minutes to weave our way around the perimeter from section 143 to 108, and there was literally no place to stop and stand, let alone eat. It was 8:15 by the time we made it back to the main gate plaza, and we stood in a light drizzle surveying the sky and the grounds crew trying to squeegee off the infield tarp. The game was still delayed. 

The setting sun was trying to break out from the storm clouds to our west, and I scanned the sky for a rainbow. There was none. The stands were still closed, every seat empty and wet, and the majority of the 38,000 people in attendance were still crammed into the sheltered concourse. 

"Let's go home," I sighed.