Rear Window

Diane Cobey was in for a visit and, as St. George is now the proud possessor of a professional baseball team and the co-owner’s wife sits next to me in class and offered free tickets, we went to a Roadrunners game. Arriving late because of a field mix-up, I backed into the first available spot and we hurried in. Unease brushed by as I watched one of the foul balls fly in the general direction of my car. Surely they wouldn’t put a parking lot close enough that cars could get hit, I reasoned in my baseball naiveté, and settled back to enjoy the game and the company. After the third high-flying foul I decided, just for peace of mind, to move my car. As I got to the parking lot, which I must add has no warning signs of any kind, I found my sweet little car nestled between to huge pseudo-protective SUV’s with its back window smashed out and a small white baseball lying innocently among the shards of glass. Diane took pictures; I fumed. The assistant manager, (a used to be football coach with “cowboy-up” oozing out his ears) was a perverse kind of sympathetic. “Shouldn’t park there (duh!), it’s the foul zone. Hope you have good insurance,” he says as he laughs, like having the back window smashed out of your brand new car was some type of lark. I brought my injured car and parked it at the front entrance, right in the no-parking zone, and mentally dared anyone to challenge me. I sinfully took pleasure at the adverse publicity I hoped I was creating. Diane, Kent, and I got it cleaned up and went back in to watch our team get slaughtered. Reno got 9 runs the inning we came back in. I like to think it was heaven wreaking justice on a heartless management, discounting the fact that the fledgling team’s record is 2 and 12. $300 insurance dollars later my car is almost as good as new. The back deck is scarred up a bit, but you know the old saying – “chicks dig scars,” which just goes to prove once again that I am no chick, spring or otherwise.