The girlfriend and I made a list of the thing we wanted to do before fall arrives and our carefree days disappear. A Twins baseball game easily made the top of the list and today was perfect. Eighty degrees. A light breeze. Sunshine. Cheap seats. Yes, please.

Because we don’t know much about baseball (or sports in general), we like to pick a specific player to root for. Usually someone near our seats. We pay attention to his at bats. We watch him on the field. It might seem silly but it’s fun. Today we chose number 11, Ben Revere:

Look at that beautiful swing.

The first time the girlfriend and I chose a player together, we had a mutual hallucination. The day was as idyllic as today. The beer just as tasty. As the players warmed we looked around, weighed our choices on entirely frivolous grounds, and landed – separately – on number 22. “Great,” we said, “Now, what’s his name.” We looked at the program, then the scoreboard, then the internet. There was no 22. There had never been a number 22. We could find no reason why we both saw this mystical, hallucinatory number. Instead of panicking that our psychotic breaks had finally come, we rose our glasses.

If we’re going crazy at least we’re going crazy together.