Game 5.

On our way back from lower Manhattan, we happened to run into some of H's coworkers a block or so from the hotel. They asked if we had seen the newest email from the front office - there was a flight going out to Kansas City tonight, but they opened up a second flight leaving very early Monday morning. We thanked them and continued our way back to the hotel, deciding I would leave tonight since I had to be at work in the morning and H would fly out on the second plane. The only issue was that the folks heading out on the flight tonight would be leaving right after the game, and my luggage (which we packed up that morning) would be going out on H's flight.

Cue dramatic music.

    IN A WORLD

Open with shots of the streets of New York.

    WHERE ONE WOMAN

Closeup of heroine's forlorn face.  

    WITH ONLY THE CLOTHES ON HER BACK

Zoom out to show sleek Royals outfit.

    SURVIVES A DAY

Fade to black.

    WITHOUT HER STUFF

Framed shot of heroine slow-motion running through an empty Times Square. 

I was actually kind of glad that I wouldn't have to look for the luggage when we landed back in KC. All I had to keep track of was my sweet, yellow, cross-body purse.

We went back to the hotel's restaurant and ordered an appetizer to tide us over until the ballgame. What they ended up serving us was something of a cross between a sushi tower and nachos. It was a cylindrical form with a bean base, diced onion, salmon tartare, smashed avocado and lime juice top, drizzled with a soy sauce glaze, and a handful of tortilla chips on the side. Yes, that was a soy sauce glaze. Some things New York just doesn't get right.

We hopped on our bus and traveled the seven or so miles to the ballpark. Directly behind us were two girls who I'd say were between the ages of twelve and fifteen - probably related to some incredibly important front office person - discussing the woes of the eighth grade. Oh, to have your biggest worry be using FOIL in Algebra, or having to decide which foreign language to take, or wonder why boys are such an annoying pain in the butt. That actually sounds pretty chill - I wouldn't mind being back in eighth grade myself.

When we got to the stadium it was still fairly early; we had about an hour to walk around before the big show began. On our last trip around the stadium, I had spotted a booth selling Lobster Nachos and it was stuck in my brain. H was down for some crazy ballpark food, so we sidled up to the booth and looked at the description. White corn tortilla chips topped with jalapenos, black beans, pepper jack cheese sauce, mango salsa, and chunks of lobster.

This is what it looked like on its first day in the big leagues. 

If I could have gotten all of that in one bite, I'm guessing it would be amazing. What I ended up with was some bites of cheesy tortilla chips, and me having to chase down the other additions with a fork. Would I get it again? Yes, on the one condition that the culinary staff had all day to prepare it and weren't just slapping some cheese on top for the masses. I'm probably being too harsh on it (it is, after all, baseball food), but dangnabbit, I have standards!

We finished munching on nachos just as the game began. Unlike H, I can't remember every out or scoring chance. I just remember having a very good feeling about the players, and that it could very possibly be the night they could win it all. The Mets' starting pitcher Matt Harvey works his way in to pitching the ninth inning. Mets fans thought this would be the stop they needed to get the series back to Kansas City - they loudly cheered his return to the mound. I remember him walking off the field amidst my section of raucous fans whooping, clapping, and possibly yelling some obscenities. I remember scoring in the top of the twelfth inning, feeling like we were just about to reach the top of Mount Everest if we could just make it through their last three guys. H grabbed his phone when it came down to the last batter, opened up his Facetime app and called his younger brother.

It all happened so fast from there. We were cheering and hugging, high fiving random people, walking around to the sections closer to home plate. At one point I was standing next to Johnny Cueto's twin-like brother (someone please teach me how to take a discreet selfie). A few minutes later, H was told he could be with the players in the locker room for the coveted champagne showers. I told him to get himself over there and I'd be fine up here with the remaining KC fans - there were at least one hundred fans (maybe even two hundred) that stayed for the next couple hours.

I wandered around until I learned where the access point to getting on the field was. A man in a security jacket was waving through people with wristbands and turning away those without. I flashed him my golden ticket and stepped past a group of guys trying to talk their way in. Now I was directly behind home plate (I could've sat in one of those fancy-shmancy plush leather chairs, but I didn't have time for games), and making my way towards the gate that separated the seats from the field. One of H's coworkers saw me and flagged me down - he said H should be done soon, and that he'd be waiting for us on the field. We showed our wristbands once again to the security guard on the field, and then magically, we were walking on major league ground.

Players had emerged from their tunnels, and it must've been somebody's birthday because the fans were singing Happy Birthday on loop. There were television and radio reporters interviewing players and coaches, there were families and tiny children running the bases. One thing I can still feel is the crunch of the "dirt" they use to denote basepaths. I thought it would be a mix of clay and dirt with that signature copper color, but it was actually comprised of hard, manufactured chips (possibly made of plastic, I can't be sure), and underneath those was that dusty dirt.

I found H with the rest of his coworkers and gave him a congratulatory hug. He smelled as though a wet dog had taken a bath in wine, and apologized for being essentially soaked through. Off to our right was the MLB Channel's setup, with Salvie and Ned Yost just chilling behind the announcers.

I made a point to congratulate anyone from the front office that I recognized. It felt like I was only on the field for five minutes when H's coworker checked his watch and said, "We better head over to the buses. They're leaving in a couple of minutes." Ever the clever one, H told me to go stand over there while he got a picture of me on the field.

I hugged H goodbye, told him to have as much fun as he could, and that I'd see him in Kansas City. As the coworker and I made our way to the buses, we couldn't stop smiling. We walked past a couple that was absolutely making out like no one was watching on a bench just outside the stadium, clapping as we went by. We hopped on the bus and talked about our favorite moments from the night. The buses roared to life and we were off to find our plane.

I thought we would be using LaGuardia, but we drove past it and onto a nearby empty tarmac. We stopped in front of a plane the size of Texas and filed onto the aircraft. We had assigned seating, but the person that I was supposed to fight over the armrest with never showed. The seatback in front of me had an embedded touchscreen and over forty different movies to choose from. It also had a navigation tab that showed the approximate location of the plane over the United States. Every five minutes a flight attendant would walk by with some sort of food item, but I was reserving my appetite for the main entrees they were going to serve.

As the plane took off, I figured it would only be appropriate to take a quick nap before the main course since it was approximately two in the morning. That quick nap turned into three-quarters of the flight. I was both upset because they didn't wake me for filet mignon and thankful that they didn't wake me because that's possibly the deepest sleep I'd gotten all week. I stayed awake long enough to consume a ginger ale and an oatmeal raisin cookie, then back to sleep I went. The next time I awoke we were grounded, and people were beginning to file off the plane. We had landed at Terminal A in the KCI airport, a bona fide vacant lot ninety-five percent of the year. H's coworker grabbed his luggage and was kind enough to give me a ride to the parking lot where H's car sat. I told him to go get some sleep, and he told me to do the same. I looked at the clock and saw that it was six in the morning.

I should go home and go to sleep.
If I go to sleep, I'll be taking a day off work.
If I take a day off work, that's one more day I can't be in Texas for Christmas.
I want to be in Texas for Christmas.
I should go to work.
How cool would it be to go to work after winning the World Series.
So incredibly cool.

And there you have it, folks. I made a quick pitstop at the house to grab food, grab my work badge, and make some coffee before heading out to work quite a bit early. I loved the feeling of walking into work with a set of World Series winning clothes, coffee in hand, and surprising my coworkers with my presence. Apparently everyone with ten brain cells reasoned I would be off that day, but boy did I show them what adrenaline can do for eight long hours. Luckily, I was able to leave somewhere between four and five in the afternoon (I honestly can't remember when I left - I believe it was dark outside?) and go pick up my husband from the baseball stadium he tends to work from on weekdays. I pulled up to the curb as he stuffed our luggage into the trunk of the car.

"How many hours of sleep did you get last night?" I asked him.
"Uh ... maybe four? Why?" he replied.
"I'm working off of three. Want to switch seats?"
"Yeah, you crazy person."

We trucked along back to the house, muscled up enough energy to bring our luggage inside the house and up the stairs to the bedroom, and went to bed. It may have been seven o'clock. Which, if you think about it, is eight o'clock New York time, and a perfectly respectable time to go to bed.

My husband is a badass.