A discussion of aren’t I, ain’t I, amn’t I, and am I not?
Crack!
From my vantage point behind first base and about half way up in the stands, I saw the ball land just inside the right field foul line and I knew it was going to be a triple. The crowd roared and we were all on our feet as our lead-off batter in the bottom of the first inning got things going with that line drive. We sat back down as the second batter stepped up to the plate.
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“Dogs, get your dogs here! Hot dogs! Hot dogs! Hot dogs!” a vendor yelled behind me in an unmistakable voice that I recognized instantly.
I turned around. It was Aunt Ruth!
“Hot dogs,” she continued. “Straight from the cow or pig or factory or whatever, get your fresh hot dogs. Hot dogs! Hot … why it’s my nauseating nephew!” she exclaimed in surprise.
“What are you doing here, dear old Aunt Ruth?” I inquired.
“Eighty-nine,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m eighty-nine. I’m not old.”
“Hey Babe,” bellowed a man perhaps fifteen seats to my left. “Can I have three dogs down here?”
“Oh hey Moe,” Aunt Ruth bellowed in return. “Three dogs comin’ atcha.” In rapid fire succession, she hurled three hot dogs — one at a time — with throws that would make Nolan Ryan proud.
“Did that man just call you ‘Babe’ or am I imagining things?” I asked, somewhat shocked.
“Oh, that’s my stadium name,” my aunt replied casually.
“Your stadium name?”
“Yes, my stadium name. They call me ‘Babe Ruth.’”
“I see,” said I, though it hadn’t really sunk in fully that my aunt was a hot dog vendor at our local AA baseball park.
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“Babe,” yelled a man perhaps twenty-five seats to my right. “Two dogs.”
“Sure Mitch,” she yelled back. “Two dogs, comin’ atcha.” Again, she reared back and fired two perfect strikes to Mitch.
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