Way Better Than Victoria (Part 1)

   Imagine walking through an airport in the mist of what could possibly be the most life changing experience of you're life, and it all comes to an end as quick as the tickets were printed.  Here's the situation to the one and only mishap of my week long excursion across the Midwest. 
  It was a Monday night earlier that week, and I'm glued to the TV like a child watching Saturday morning cartoons stuffing his face with endless amounts of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.  The Ags, my pride and joy, were one win away from going to Omaha for the College World Series in Omaha, Nebraska.  Only five previous times prior to this had A&M made it.  Even further back at the beginning of the fall I traveled to Lincoln to catch a Husker football game with Mark, and I had promised him that if the Aggies made it to Omaha that I would be sitting next to him enjoying the ball game, which ironically he envisioned in a dream just one year previous.  Anyways, the slow rolling grounder drifted in seemingly slow motion, it was fielded perfectly and then it was a reality.  A dog pile ensued in Tallahassee and in my living room, because I was going to Omaha to watch them contend for a Nation Championship. 
   Back to the airport.  So my Dad and I set out on the first 100+ of nearly 3,000 miles of travel I was getting myself into. As a sturdy businessman I stood eagerly waiting for my turn to print my tickets, keep in mind its fathers day Sunday, and literally everyone and their father's were flying in and out of Austin so it Time Square sized traffic jam getting to the airport.  Exaggeration, but seemed that way for me, so I print my tickets and begin to read through to make sure that everything is alright, only to find that the passenger name is my Dad's and not mine.  I get in line not panicked at all, it was still to early at 6:05 to get my feathers too ruffled on what I thought was an easy reprint name change and leave.  After waiting about a minute and a half, a middle aged helper from the airport with an Indian accent comes and let's me know that he was about to ruin my day, by telling me that my dad had to be here to change the name or it would never happen, and my trip would've been assassinated before it even took a breathe of life.  Frantically I call my Dad, who luckily enough is new to his Iphone and doesn't let it get fifteen feet out of his site like a baby who was just born, and he was not too far, but needed to speed so I could still make my flight.  I get to the front of the line to a soft voiced checker lady for American Airlines, who could see the distress running from  my face, like I was wearing a shirt that said, "I just pee'd my pants and everyone can see it".  Explaining my situation, she told me some of the best words I've heard in my life, "It's okay, this happens all the time.  Tell you're Dad he doesn't have to come." . By the time I went to snag my cell phone, I see my Dad running through the crowds pushing through a seeming defensive line the size of the Patriots to get to the front, and when I told him that we got it figured out when most parents, who don't remember where they parked because they were in such a hurry, would've wanted to rip their kids heads off we stepped out of the line with the new tickets and he let out a deep breathe of relief.  At this point,  I was a nervous wreck, but on Father's Day Sunday he stayed with me as long as he could get through to security, gave me a hand shake and a hug and told me he loved me and sent me on through.  With a one way flight to the middle of America, who knows what was coming next for me, and this was possibly the worst way to begin my trek and it was day one. 
   Maneuvering my through security seemed overly easy now almost pointless, yet needed.  Feeling sick in my stomach partially due to the mix of chaotic ticket exchange and the 3 pigs in a blanket and a whole chocolate milk I stuffed down my face at 3 when we were leaving Victoria.  I'd imagine the food was sitting in that gas station from give or take a month, because I still have the black shits from that.  Anyways I was sitting there thinking I was going to puke my guts out on the flight which departed in fifteen short minutes, and then it gets better.  As I was sitting their hold my churning stomach hoping it settled, my name was called out over the PA to come to the front.  After soiling my pants, I moved between the full plane line to the desk when the lady looked at me with a smile and handed my boarding pass to Omaha  to me.  I looked at it, then took a look around at all the poor people that were going to die in 30 minutes from a plane crash started by my horrendous luck in the past hour.  Thankfully excused myself back to the end of the line, and placed a phone call to my Dad, so he could know never to let me never leave his sight again because of my irresponsibility as of late.
   Now I plan to speed up the process of developing the trip of a life time after reading a very well written portrayal of a man shatting himself with the descriptive words of "like a volcano".  Anyways back to Omaha, I land in the Midwest after spending a couple of meaningless hours of being hassled by stewardess, and watching some poor old woman squeeze her freezer size ass into the tiny airplane stall for her morning duties, I got of the plane and found Mark.  We motor through a flood ridden part of Iowa/Nebraska (airport is actually in Iowa ironically) and found our spot for a steady breakfast at the IHOP on the more colorful side of Omaha.  We ate and conversed about what's been going on in our respected areas in the past months calmly sitting confident as the only white folk in the place, but never effecting anything going on.  The time is getting closer, after eating it's around eleven in the morning, and I'm actually as tired as an insomniac on benadryll.  Mark tours me through Omaha and even takes me back to the original home of the College World Series known as Rosenblatt.  Nostalgic in its own state, it was kind of ominous to not see any people in what would typically be the scene of an amusement park for baseball freaks.  No one in the parking lot, and the typical hangout spots were lonely and lifeless.  Almost like a mother losing her children and dying away this was no exception.  A once magnificent place full of emotions, and past memories sits and waits for the wrecking balls to plaster it's walls and only leave behind the memory and a zoo.  Sad story in itself. 
   I can't sit around and pretend I had an emotional attachment, but it was rather eerie.  Anyways we roll on through and make our way to TD Ameritrade Ball Park.  Tempting me with slight glimpses of the brand new stadium as we pass office buildings on I-80 was a dream becoming reality.  Mark would be in the middle of stories about Nebraska, but that's all I can remember because I was zoned out and ready to step foot inside the miraculous place.  And to think we were still 6 hours from even walking in the building.  After taking sometimes to park it's a walk of about a mile or so yet it seems like ten.  Actually seemed more like ten miles after crossing the desert without water and an oasis/waterfall dream vacation spot is in your view.  Arrived. 
   It now sits about 12:15 in the afternoon of a fresh Nebraska day, and the sun is cooking and I mean cook the eggs on the sidewalk sunny side up, flat ass hot.  With 6 hours before game time to spare we needed a chill place.  Looked through all the little shops and passed through the big area for kids, which was so tempting because of the speed pitch, but I thought on a better note and didn't rip my rotators cuff trying to throw a Randy Johnson bird annihilating heater into a plastic sheet just to show my manliness to some eight year olds.  We found our place of rest in the shade.  This was a plus and a minus thing,  on account of the lack of sleep I was hell bent of sleeping like a homeless guy in Houston just outside of the CWS, but didn't happen.  We conversed and gnawed on some warm jerky Mark had stowed away to defeat the overpriced hotdog venders at the ball game.  After a couple hours in the shade, Mark had some friends in the area, so we went to find him.  As we were talking to them the Virginia and Cal game ended, and then it kicked in.  An a shot of adrenaline compared to taking Five Hour Energy shots like a fratstar binge drinking on years old whiskey.  I was ready, and almost impatient, but did not let it show, but I was anxious.  When Mark's friend's departed the temperature had rose to a seemingly 115 degrees (probably 90), but it felt even hotter waiting for all the people from the previous game to clear.  Filing out like someone called in a bomb threat, the masses of people came hundreds after hundreds, and when it ended we were standing at the apex of the stairs and the apex of my baseball dreams just gleaming into the stadium built for people like me.