When you find yourself next to a drunk idiot, what are you going to do?

Today's Story


The Seventh Inning Peace

By Peter McKenna

To a Giants game went I, a rare event.  I was a pinch-sitter for my girlfriend Laura’s nephew.  He declined because this was his last weekend in California before his transition to Santa Fe, New Mexico to play junior league hockey.  Yeah, I know, that’s a bit strange.  How do you skate on sand?  Anyway besides, he thinks baseball is boring; they don’t even have a brawl except every once in a while.

For me the drama was in sitting in the midst of a Dodger fan group.  The four lads behind me were gentlemen, but this MORON to my immediate left turned things into a hostage situation with his rants.   Especially when this LOUDMOUTH COW two rows back started answering him.

Moron was young, he didn’t look out of his teens, though he had an ID apparently since he kept getting beers.  Loudmouth Cow three rows behind was mid-40’s, a skinny, stretch-faced blonde who looked like she could sure use a smoke. She’d had a drink or four.  We were all way up high, right under the concave of the sun roof.  Les Enfants du Paradis.

Moron wore baggy jeans, a white undershirt, a crewcut, a kind of fat blurry expression, tattoos and more tattoos.  He first made his presence known by yelling unimaginative cusswords toward the field, mofo and pussy mostly.   Now and then he spoke Spanish with his wife, who was about his age but dressed much more conservatively and acting much more civilized.  She held a baby in her arms.  Laura was convinced he abused her since he wore a wife beater shirt and was generally a loud drunk asshole.   For a couple of innings, she ditched him, taking the baby, thank God.  Laura feared for her when they got home and she might have had to pay for her disloyalty.

Loudmouth Cow wore an orange t-shirt and tight black jeans.  She had no mate to embarrass – maybe somebody had ditched her – but she did not comfort the other Giants’ fans when she matched Moron’s invective with her own.

Moron:  Swing at the mofo ball, you pussy Frisco mofo!

LMC:  Go back to your fucking street gang, you LA Dodger dumbshit, and take your butt ugly fashion statement with you!

Moron:  Hey, bite my cock you airsucking old ho!  You been with these Frisco faggots too long, you need some Dodger dick, bitch!

LMC:  You need to grow up and get a job, gangbanger!   And stop spending all your welfare money on getting shitfaced!

Moron:  You need a new face, you ugly buttlip!

LMC:  You need to get your butt whipped, Pepe!

Moron:  You need to get your butt fucked, Hillary!  You ain’t gettin’ laid, that’s your problem!

LMC: You ain’t got no class, that’s your problem!

And this guy was sitting right next to me as we wait for the rumble to start.  He gulped his beer, then looked blearily at me and said, “She’s got some attitude, ‘m’I right?”

I didn’t know what else to say.  “She’s a fan.  Like you’re a fan.”

“You’re a fan, huh bro?” He didn’t say which team, but he didn’t seem displeased.

“I want to see my town win, sure.”

“You from here?”


“Hey, ‘s’cool, bro, I wasn’t dissing you.”  Did he mean the Frisco faggots remark?    “Have a beer, dude!” He’d brought an extra.

I accepted and shrugged embarrassedly when he asked me various questions about Giants pitching and batting.  I kept saying, “I don’t really follow it that closely.  What do you think?”

Then he asked in gentle seriousness, “You’re not mentally retarded, are you?”

“No, just dumb.”

He accepted that, and proceeded to tell me all he thought I needed to know about my team, and his team, and various other teams, interrupting himself from time to time to yell something at the field, but yelling no more at the floozie behind us.   Laura whispered that fate had made me a peacekeeper.  As for the Giants lady, a couple of the nice Dodger fans were talking to her.

When you find yourself next to a drunk idiot, what are you going to do?  Usually guys like that are looking for a fuck, a friend, or a fight.  Well, you a), Hope his lady drags him away. b), Hope he falls asleep during a dull stretch; c) Hope he stands up overexcited, slips on all the beer he’s spilled, and conks out on the concrete; d) Wish you didn’t have to deal with him just because you happen to be sitting there, but better you than your girlfriend; e) Wonder if something important just happened because everyone is on their feet and LMC is yelling Peedro! Peedro! and the Giants fans are jumping up and down and the Dodger fans are silent, except for Moron, who is hitting his head and moaning, Fock, fock, oh fock!

Pedro Feliz had just hit a grand slam; it was the seventh inning, and the Dodgers never came back.   I read the next day that it was possibly the most dramatic game of the season.


A native San Franciscan, Peter McKenna was a junior college English instructor for 25 years, and did a few other things before that.  He is working on a novel about the Civil War raid in Saint Albans, Vermont.


To comment on this story, visit Fiction365’s Facebook page.

A simple premise; a bold promise
To present one story per day, every day —providing exceptional authors with exposure and avid readers with first-rate fiction.