To the Woman at the Boston Red Sox Game – I’m SO Sorry About the Mustard
This seriously sounds made up. This sounds like a comedic scene in a sitcom like Seinfeld or a movie. But six other people -- seven if you include this poor woman -- know that this is 100% reality. And I'm SO sorry for it.
For the last couple of summers, my group of friends and I have made it a tradition to go to a Thursday afternoon Red Sox game. Yesterday, the tradition continued. We scored seats in the Right Field Box, the second-to-last row in our section, and the first seven seats from the aisle.
What we didn't realize is that somehow, we ended up right in the middle of a work outing for a business, with seats in the row behind us and the row in front of us.
When we showed up, there was only one woman sitting behind us, and the row in front of us was pretty empty. At least, naturally, until we ordered a round of Fenway Franks when the vendor walked by. Because why wouldn't the timing have been better?
Just as I started struggling with the mustard packet for my hot dog, the group with the seats in front of us showed up. As they were filing into their seats, I was still struggling with the mustard packet. I had already tried opening all ends with my fingers, no dice. Since that failed, I had to resort to my teeth, ripping off the smallest pieces without making the packet explode, but still not ripping it deep enough to puncture the packet opening.
At this point, only half of the group had made their way into the row in front of us and were still standing, and I was still wrestling with this stupid mustard packet. Finally, I figured I bit it close enough where I could just squeeze the packet to one corner and force the mustard to break the seal and shoot into my hot dog bun. I even made sure to hold it where my buddy Josh next to me would be protected.
And that's when it happened.
Just as the final woman was making her way into the row, the mustard finally forced its way out of the packet -- in the opposite direction I intended, right at the final woman making her way into the row in front of me.
She had mustard all over her shirt, which the super sweet Fenway attendant actually smudged in deeper while trying to help her wipe it off. For the next five straight minutes, all my friends heard about was how humiliated I was and how terrible I felt. I mentioned I was going to buy her a drink (while continually apologizing profusely), and I fully intended to.
But about three minutes later, a friend I know that works at Fenway brought us up to the Monster Seats to a standing only area, and I never saw the poor woman again.
So, Miss, if you're reading this, I just wanted to highlight the fact that once again, I'm horribly sorry and it definitely wasn't intentional. If I ever run into you again, I promise I'll get you that drink. I'll even let you cover me in mustard in return. And ketchup. And relish...
...now I'm craving a Fenway Frank.