As I ran down the stairs, like I try to do every visit to an Indians game, past her on the landing, and down the next flight, she yelled out “Can I have your wiener?”. As I looked back up at the somewhat attractive but also probably a decade my junior female, and thought about the fan with a hotdog image I held in my hand, passed out by the stadium staff to help with the heat, I almost instinctively replied “No” as I shook my head. After all, maybe during the hotdog race, they would want us to wave them or something. As a glimmer of a thought that maybe she was flirting with me popped into my head, she opined “Are you serious?”. I realized I probably didn’t really want the hotdog, but what could I do now? I had missed the chance for the “proper” response, as always. Frozen in my social awkwardness, I simply shrugged, smiled awkwardly, and sped around the corner down the next flight of stairs.
The wondering followed me. Along with the feeling that I couldn’t possibly have made it any further in the conversation.