It was time to leave Charlotte/Fort Mill and
the Craddock/Johnston clan. Again, thanks to all (especially Cindi and Lindsay)
for the hospitality peppered with evil.
On the way out of town, we stopped at Knights
Stadium to see Cindi before we left. We did not, however, see Lindsay as she
was still sawing logs and we dared not wake a southern woman. We arrived at the
stadium and took the elevator up to the third floor to see Cousin Cindi’s
workspace. While there, she made a call and, minutes later, the July 4th
edition of the Charlotte Knights hat was delivered in size 7 1/8…one final gift
of awesomeness. I better mention that she also gave me a magnetic schedule, or
that will be on the “forgotten” list.
We also got to see Pete, the REAL provider of
the Crawdad and Mudcat tickets, so it was cool to be able to thank him again.
The GM for the team, Dan, also stopped by for a quick chat and I considered
asking him to fire Cindi, but feared he, too, might not like her and actually
take me up on it.
The original plan called for us to spend
Friday and Saturday in Hope Mills maybe doing a little research on the Johnson
side. However, when we made a quick stop at the Hope Mills cemetery on the 4th,
it felt like it was 170 degrees in the shade, so I didn’t really want to sweat
out while walking around graveyards. I’ll plan to come back in the fall
sometime, when, as The Mayor says, the temperature is better and the snakes
have gone away. Instead, we decided to make a change on the fly.
We dropped our stuff off at The Mayor’s, had
dinner at Fred Chason’s Grandsons southern/soul food buffet, and headed to
Zebulon for the Mudcats game. During the drive, we decided that our Saturday
would be better spent not traipsing through the sandy and fire ant infested soil of Hope Mills, but
the sandy beaches of Holden Beach. We texted The Mayor to make sure that
inviting ourselves back to the beach was allowable. With his okay, a new plan was
hatched. We’d spend the night in the land of my people after the game and back
to the beach on Saturday.
I must back up for a minute to mention the
greatness of Grandsons. The Mayor took me and the cousins there back in 2009
for a tasty southern buffet. I only have one complaint about Grandsons…the fact
that they don’t label their items. I am somewhat of a picky eater, so I’d like
to know exactly what it is they are trying to peddle before it ends up on my
plate. What if that apparent chicken strip is really some sort of fried fish
product? How about that BBQ item? Is it pork, chicken, fish? According to their
definition of BBQ, it should be chopped or pulled pork, but it’s a large piece
of flesh with BBQ sauce on it. Thus, their definition suddenly no longer
applies. And that apple cobbler that actually turned out to be peach…had it
been labeled, I wouldn’t have embarrassed myself asking about it. A simple, hand-written note on each steaming bin of southern food product would make life
easier for the out-of-town visitor. Wait…they don’t care about my food
identification issues and probably make fun of me, don’t they? I now hate them.
About 12 minutes into my Grandsons plate of
southern buffet joy, I got a call from my nieces back in the STL. It sounded as
though they were laughing, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying, so
I went outside for a better listen. It turns out that they had gotten into what
ended up being a very minor accident getting onto 270 from Tesson Ferry and
were banshee screaming and freaking out about what to do. They couldn’t reach
my sister or brother-in-law, so I was the next logical choice in their minds.
After telling them to breathe and that Marky (their dad) was not, in actuality,
going to kill them, I reminded them that it was an accident, they had done
nothing wrong and this very thing is why they pay through the nose for insurance. I also asked them
to recall that both of their parents had been involved in accidents in the past,
so stones could not be cast in their direction. As teenage girls involved in
their first fender bender might, they made it seem as if the car had flipped
107 times and was engulfed in flames on the side of the road. It turns out that
it twas merely a flesh wound and the cop who arrived on the scene was very nice,
but had her drive the car home due to the minor damage. While they did freak out, I’m glad they knew
they could call me in a time of teenage crisis. For the record, Marky killed no
one, the insurance company says it wasn’t her fault, and she was back on the
road, without fear, the next day. Way to go, Bad Kids.
Okay, back to the game in Zebulon. As we
neared Zebulon, we drove through a rather heavy thunderstorm that I thought
might affect at least the start time of the first pitch of the game. Turns out,
I was correct in that assumption. Of course, an hour delay when we will only
get five hours of sleep after our drive back to Hope Mills as it is. Please
delay the start as long as you can.
The Carolina Mudcats have a cool stadium, but
the steepness of the seating areas is reminiscent of old Yankee Stadium and
that soulless new Comiskey in Chicago. No, I do not recognize it’s corporately
purchased name, nor shall I ever. Sorry, Mr. Obama, but your favorite team’s stadium is not high
on my list of favorites. I will only go if the Cubs are not in
town and I’m too lazy to drive 100 miles to see a minor or independent league
game. The Mudcats did not fare well that evening. The Red Sox scored eight
before the ‘Cats even got on the board and doubled up before game’s end. Not
pretty for the home team.
Day 7 photos can be viewed HERE.
Day 7 photos can be viewed HERE.
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