Bailed on those corporate seats—
       traded Suits for spirits,
               Jim Beam section,
                     me and Zac,
               drowning in beer,
          hot dogs disappearing,
nachos stacked dangerously high,
      and questionable toppings. (no sneeze guard? brave.)

You waited till the last minute
    (Mari-style, sweating me out)
    and still landed Row 9—

    busiest seats in home run heaven.

Perfect, obviously.

Cheered Cal to history—
         first catcher,
         switch-hitter,

         me watching with you (not with, but with. kinda.)

Then came the nachos' revenge:
   a Southeast Asia flashback,
      morning-after suffering,
          humanity questioned,
           survival uncertain—

Until work pulled me from the grave,
      adrenaline-fueled incident response,
      world-saving heroics
      delivered with keystrokes,

      resurrecting me from culinary doom.

Now, one cautious beer later,
     testing my invincibility—
         battered but buoyant,
           heroic but humbled,
        nacho death conquered,
     spirits: restored.

Still standing, Mari.

Still smiling.