Day 16: Louisville

Day 16 began with packing up the Rav one last time before heading to Louisville. Due to my Tetris-like packing abilities, this was a simple feat and off we went for the morning meal at Panera or, as we call it in the land of its founding, Bread Co. While standing in the queue, minding my own business and perusing the menu boards, I noticed two children – the elder a male, the younger a female – with their apparent female parent in front of us. Her offspring were flying erratically around the place like Dementors seeking souls. Lupin had these particular ruffians pegged when he said, “Dementors (aka these children) are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth... Get too near a Dementor and every good feeling; every happy memory will be sucked out of you... You will be left with nothing but the worst experiences of your life.” Right on Remus! Well said. And to think those two trilogies and an extra book were works of fiction…

Yep. That's them.

As these hooligans tore around the place like screaming banshees hopped up on Mountain Dew, I threw them a few stink eyes to no avail. That is until the boy child, running about like he was appearing at the NFL combines, ran smack dab into my right hip/leg at full speed – easily 106 miles per hour. For him, it was like crashing into a wall of brick and mortar as he stumbled backwards in a daze with obvious signs of bewilderment upon his face. He was in such a state of shock that he could nary muster a whimper, much less release the fluids of the tear ducts. It was then that he experienced a fear unlike any he had ever imagined. This unfamiliar, body-freezing terror was caused 100% by me yelling “EXCUSE ME!” in a clearly angered and unforgiving tone. It was then that this pile of slugs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails took the form of a carbonite encased Han Solo as he cuddled ever so closely to the parent figure. He did not, nay he could not, move, as though he was frozen in that moment in time gazing up at my angry scowl and forever having the words rattle around his tympanic membrane. I must admit that the unbridled expression of dread upon his face provided a nice chuckle for me.

Did the mother figure scold, reprimand, admonish or otherwise express any displeasure toward her troubled descendants? No. She did not. Thus, she proved to be unfit to rule her minions and should have those powers stripped by the constable. No sort of apology was offered, nor would one have been accepted. Tether those children to thine side if they are in dire need of discipline and cannot possibly immobilize themselves whilst you, the child-bearer, places an order for their morning feeding.

Upon concluding the consumption of the breakfast foodstuffs, we commenced the five-hour drive to Louisville for the final nine innings of the trip. Wait…Brother Peter was still with us, so make that a seven-hour drive to Louisville. Remember the formula – for every two hours driven, one must factor in 30 minutes for Brother Peter’s potty breaks. So I’m actually spotting him 15 minutes here. I’m ever the benevolent driver.

Eventually, we arrived in Jefferson County, Kentucky and rolled up to our hotel near the Louisville Airport. Once the luggage was dumped, we headed to Louisville Slugger Field, home of the Louisville Bats. Finding a parking spot rather close to game time proved to be a bit of a challenge, but a spot was found and we walked over to the stadium. We entered the seating bowl and tried to locate a way up to the second level. Not an easy task as there are only two stairwells at the far reaches (sections 108 and 124) of the concourse to ascend to our seats. There were many ways to get down, but not up. Strange, I must say.

Yep. That's the place.

It was at the Bats game that stupid crap, in this case, shoddy quality t-shirts, was being slingshotted around the place as some sort of prize for the fortunate ones who might snatch one from its flight pattern. While speaking to Julia, my head turned to the right toward her, I detected such an object en route to our section from my peripheral vision. I extended my left hand in a claw like fashion, without even turning my head, and snagged the tossed garment much in the same manner as our national symbol, the bald eagle, snatches a fish from a flowing stream. Quite impressive, if I do say so myself. Quite impressive, that is, until we unrolled the t-shirt to reveal a Long John Silver’s logo. Seriously? You couldn’t toss Bat-imprinted shirts to the crowd? I hate seafood and I hate crappy t-shirts with stupid things printed on them. So consider that gift horse’s mouth looked.

While in attendance at Louisville Slugger Field, I received a text from Brother Peter including a photo he had taken on a walk from our hotel to Churchill Downs. I decided that after the game we, too, would seek out the land of the run for the roses. Oh Dan Fogelberg…where are you now? Well, according to the Wikipedia, Mr. Fogelberg died in 2007. Now don’t I feel like a jerk face with my humorous obscure reference? I’m not afraid to admit it, Dan…I loved “Run for the Roses” as a nine year-old in 1981 and I’m pleased to say it’s in my collection still today. Rock on, Dan!

Once the Mud Hens put the final nail in the Bats’ coffin with a 10-0 shutout victory, we pointed the Rav in the direction of Churchill Downs. For some reason, from the few times I’ve watched the Derby over the years, I was under the impression that Churchill Downs was outside of Louisville on or near some sprawling Kentucky bluegrass farmland or something. Nope. Couldn’t have been more wrong.

Sure looks like the Churchill Downs I know and love.

As you turn onto Central Avenue from Crittenden Drive, you cross a long bridge over the railroad tracks and pass the University of Louisville’s football and baseball stadiums. You are then, officially, on the wrong side of the tracks – definitely not the idyllic bluegrass farmland I had envisioned all these years. It is apparent that Churchill Downs is responsible for maintaining Central Avenue outside of the main entrance as the lawns are super well-kept and the fencing is sparkling white like freshly bleached teeth. Turn the corner to drive down any of the other surrounding streets and it feels as though one made a wrong turn into post Flood of ’93 Lemay. Just not the picture I had in my mind.

The other thing I noticed, or didn’t notice, I should say, was people. Nobody. We drove around the entire complex and saw small, old, mildly dilapidated homes, crappy lawns and even a car on blocks, just like any other wrong side of the tracks in this great land of ours. But we never saw a soul except for the chronic gamblers parked at the main entrance of the Downs who were inside the OTB facility, The Parlay, dropping the last of their life savings on “I Eat Hair” in the third. It was bizarre and it felt like a scene out of the Left Behind books. With that, and the fact that I feared we had been spared from an alien invasion, we headed back to the lodging place for the evening to rest ourselves for the final leg of the journey home.

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