I went to see the Cleveland Indians play the Boston Red Sox this afternoon. It was perfect, perfect baseball weather, and I was eager to see if my Indians could win the rubber match of a three-game series against a team I’m not very fond of.

The Indians didn’t win. In fact, they got trounced, with a final score of 14-2. Being at a game when you know it’s improbable (not impossible, but highly improbable) for your team to come back allows you to slow down and enjoy the diverse array of folks who show up for an afternoon game. To my right were my friend Stephanie (and her rally cows) and her fellow graduate student, John, whom I had just met. To my left was an older guy who looked like a sexy Rust Belt version of General Custer along with his adult son. He was good for flexing my somewhat dormant flirting muscles. (I’m married, not dead.) In front of us was an man with his elderly father. The father (we discovered) had Alzheimer’s. The folks in our row took turns talking to him and listening to him talk about being in the Marines during the war and how he played four seasons in Triple AAA ball for a Mr. Rosenblum. Behind us was a man who said “Home run” for every ball hit in the air. It was a fine assortment of Cleveland baseball fans.

On the way home, I was driving along the Innerbelt when I saw a big white van driving along with the side door completely open. There was a big Boxer/Pit Bull mix dog standing in the back. He mellowly poked his nose out the door to check out the view as the van went around Dead Man’s Curve. (Yes, there really is a place in Cleveland called Dead Man’s Curve. It’s where the freeway leading into town turns at about a 90 degree angle.) He had a collar and was leashed to the back of the driver’s seat. He looked to be maybe 85 or 90 pounds, so at least he was heavy enough that he wasn’t flying around the back of the van. Only in Cleveland would someone think that would be a good way for the dog to get some fresh air. We love our pets.