Game 1.

Before I start my World Series game day experience, I have to tell you about this awesome part of the ALCS. At the end of each home game in the ALCS there was a pop-up party in a canvas tent just outside the stadium for the front office and operations executives to catch a bite and chat about the game. The catering company was spectacular, sending out different delicacies each night. My personal favorite was the tiny cauldron of mac n' cheese topped with smokey brisket pieces, followed closely by the mini pulled pork sliders on pretzel buns. They had a different band playing each night, and a loaded dessert table, but the showstopper had to be the ice sculptures they had on display.  I give you the three ice sculptures of the ALCS.

Game 1, ALCS. They chiseled baseballs into the columns of this one.

You can't really see it, but there's a KC Crown banner right behind my head. 

They created a tiny ski run in the top of the sculpture.
You choose your drink, the guy behind the table pours it down the ice, and out comes a frosty beverage. 

Not a bad way to wait out the traffic as everyone leaves the stadium. Let me just chow down on some of these kettle chip nachos and shredded chicken tacos. Oh, there's chocolate mousse cups? Well, I suppose I could open up my dessert shelf and pack that space. Speaking of dessert shelves, have you ever wanted a device that lets you dunk cookies in milk? I do now. 

That last night of the ALCS was filled with H high-fiving people from his work, rubbing elbows with people in suits who were looking ahead to the next opponent, and dancing with the friends and family of the suits who weren't as constrained by the perception of their peers. I think it was one in the morning when we decided it would be a good time to go home and get some sleep. H and I were walking through the office upstairs, congratulating coworkers as we grabbed our things before heading out. 

We were walking by this pair of suits H had just high-fived when he stops, spins around, and says, "Oh, guys this is my wife, Anna." So I stop and turn around to make pleasantries. The first of the two was a scouting manager, grey hair, glasses, and a kind smile. The second of the two wasn't wearing his suit jacket, just the shirt and tie, peppered hair, sharp features, and a quick smile. H said, "This is Dayton Moore." I tried not to lock up as I shook the hand of the Royals' GM. 

"Nice to meet you," I said.  

"Nice to meet you, too, Anna," says Dayton. 

H, smooth as ever, says very calmly, "Well, we're headed out," and he turns to leave. 

To which I add, "Have a good night," attempting to remain as cool as H. 

"Thanks. Have a nice night, Anna," says Dayton. 

He probably didn't remember me after then, but in that moment, the General Manager of the Kansas City Royals knew who I was. 

But back to baseball. Game 1 of the World Series was upon us. I was feeling the jellies at work over the fact that I had tickets to this city's premiere event, and while I don't like to rub my lucky breaks in the faces of others, I'll admit I was thrilled to be going. H called me in the morning to confirm I had a seat waiting for me on the players' plane to New York. Ecstatic doesn't seem to cover how I felt. Little did I know all that luck was about to run out. I hopped in my car at the end of the day and turned the key. The engine roared to life - it sounded exactly as though I had just started a motorcycle, complete with minute shaking of the underside of my car. I immediately called H. 

"Hey, it's me. Can you hear that?" 

"Yeah, your car is really loud. Are you okay?"

"I think so. But why is it making that noise?" 

"Do you think you can drive it?"
"Uh, maybe. I'll let you know. See you soon."

I put the car into drive and pulled into the parking spot directly in front of this one. When I let my foot off the brake, it got quieter, then suddenly louder when I pressed the gas. I parked the car, turned it off, and called the most mechanic-like person I could think of - my boss. He was concerned why I hadn't left for the game yet, and after I told him what sound it was making, agreed to come take a look at my car to see if he could fix it. It was misting the whole day, and was now starting to drizzle, so I walked up the steps to the front of the building to wait for him. When he met up with me and we started walking back to my car, both of us spotted something. 

That would be my exhaust pipe free-floating beneath the car. 

My boss explained that someone had come through and taken the catalytic converter from under my car by sawing through the exhaust system on either side. He said they look for originals on cars to steal and sell to people who melt them down for the precious metals inside. All told, they probably make around seventy dollars per converter. I went through a myriad of emotions (shock, rage, cynicism, even laughter at the perfect timing of it all) before landing on distress. My boss was able to fix it for the moment with a coat hanger rigged to hold the exhaust pipe close to the undercarriage. I tried driving around the block, but it couldn't get up to speed. H reminded me we have Triple A, but all of their trucks were full (apparently the Series produces a ton of car wrecks), so I left that task for the next day. I called an Uber to take me to the game, and the driver regaled me of how his catalytic converter was stolen in a church parking lot. That actually made me feel a little better, and by the time I arrived at the stadium I had calmed down considerably.

In the second level, near the foul pole, you can see the section of Mets fans in bright orange.
Those silly Mets fans. 

That first game was brutally long. The night before I had started feeling symptoms of a cold, and separated myself from people whenever possible to avoid spreading whatever I had. Even though my skin was prickling with excitement, it was also prickling with tiny raindrops and shivers, and by the 11th inning I was tuckered out. H guided me upstairs to his office with his mighty security badge, and I laid down for a nap in the loudest place in Kansas City. H and his brother came to get me after the last and final inning (14th), after they had gone to the home game party, and after most of the fans had left the parking lot. It felt like I had been asleep for minutes, but in that time warp the Royals had squeaked out a win. 

The guys holding it down at the after party. 

We drove back to the house and the boys went to sleep. I stayed up late, packing my suitcase for the flight that would depart after Game 2 Wednesday night. When I did go to sleep, I dreamed of tiny baseballs floating through the air, landing in my outstretched hand.