7th Inning Matchmaker

The Tailgate

  I don't bite back the grimace that takes over my face, nor the crinkle of my nose as I open the door of the porta potty. I believe whole heartedly that there is nothing more disgusting in this world than a porta potty. Especially if said porta potty has been baking in the sun for the last three hours. But when nature comes a calling, you answer.

  There was no way I'd be able to walk the four blocks up to Nationals Park without wetting myself. It was tradition to tailgate before the games, but this was the first time we'd done it for several hours since it was a Sunday afternoon game.

  I turn my  head away from the stench and take a big breath to fill  my lungs before I'm holding it tightly.  

  I don't think I've ever taken care of business so quickly in my life and yet when I shove open the door to get out my lungs are burning for fresh air.  I stumble over my own feet, noticing a piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my white converse sneakers. I cringe at the thought of that dumb porta potty again as I try to toe off the paper with my opposite foot. 

  I end up almost turning myself around in a circle trying to get the nasty remnant off, my shoulder catching on the bicep of a random stranger. I'm not entirely sure which one of us wasn't paying enough attention to miss each other, but I'm quick to apologize. "So, so sorry!" I continue my dance, giving up and just running the heel of my shoe against the grass over and over again, before finally looking up and noticing the exceptionally attractive man hovering over me. 

  "No problem," he assures me with a very small smile. "My fault. You good?"

  "Mhm," I tell him, "Watch out for stray toilet paper. Apparently it will attach itself to you without your permission."

  He gives a nod as he furrows his brow, "Good to know." And with that we go our separate ways. 

"Hey, Clem! You got everything you need from the car?"

I double check the pockets of my jean shorts. Cell phone rests in the back right pocket, cash in the front left along with my license. A red hair band sits around my wrist ready and waiting to toss up my blonde hair the minute the temperature gets too warm, or I get too heated from yelling. I'm almost positive the latter will certainly come first.

"I think so!" I yell out to Hannah from behind the car, folding up the lawn chairs we'd pulled out and used as we enjoyed our tailgate with a few friends.

I can hear her laughing from the driver side door, "You sure about that?"

I pat down my shorts again, checking off my mental list. "Yes! Cell, ID, cash and hair tie. I'm good."

Hannah's chuckle grows louder, causing a couple of our other friends to rejoin us from loading up their own vehicles. "What's her deal?" Landon asks, coming to stand next to me in his Nationals tee.

"I have no clue. She asked if I had everything I needed and I said yes. Apparently, the word yes is hilarious," I complain in agitation.

Landon's brown eyes look me up and down before his own grin forms and he joins in the laughter as well. My left hand automatically slaps his chest, making him wince and laugh louder. By now our other two friends Paisley and Corey have thrown in their own giggles and chortles, pissing me off all the more.

"What am I missing!" I demand in frustration.

Hannah finally comes around to the back of her car, holding a jersey and ball cap. I immediately hang my head in shame, now noticing I only had on my navy tank. 

"Roger is rolling over in his grave," Landon smirks, grabbing the jersey from Hannah.

  "He's still alive, you idiot," I snap, reaching out to grab the shirt that he now appears to be holding hostage. "Don't play with me."  He dances around in place a bit, shuffling back and forth on his feet as he holds my Roger Clemens jersey further out of my reach each time. I throw him off his game as I just suddenly stop moving before launching a nice kick to his left shin making him release the top. I catch it before it hits the ground, saving it from dirt. 

  "Don't mess with a family heirloom," I warn him as he rubs the spot that's already turning red on his skin. 

  "I still can't believe your parents named you after a guy that has a rap sheet!" Paisley laughs as she drops my cap on top of my head. 

  "Trust me, it's all because of his time as a Boston Red Sox. They conveniently left those interesting tidbits of information out of all the answers I've ever been given as to how I got my name. We Robbins bleed Boston Red until we die, even after my namesake being found guilty on six felony counts." I slip my arms through the old jersey, leaving the shirt unbuttoned and adjusting the cap better on my head. 

  "Now, one last time, Clem," Hannah starts, her eyes piercing my own in a playful but stern way while her hands sit on her hips, "Do you have everything you need?"

  I grit my teeth and roll my eyes. "Yes, mother."

  "Face it, friend. You'd walk into work barefoot if it weren't for the fact that you keep all your shoes by the front door," Paisley teases, linking her arm through mine and Hannah's as the guys lock up their cars. 

  I bump her hip with my own as we start our walk to the stadium along with a good few hundred others who've been enjoying an early game day start with tailgating fun. 

  In the midst of Landon and Corey tossing out a wolf whistle at our antics as they walk behind us, I overhear a very random and not surprising, "Clemens sucks!"

*Unedited

*This may very well end up being a complete suck fest, but I'm willing to give it a go.