As your eyes open you see a bloody bat barrel and a pair of cleats caked with mud and entrails. You look up slowly, fearing the end has come. Robin Yount, blood dripping from his perfect ‘stache - splattered over the front of his jersey - stands over you. You think to yourself, “At least I’ll be eaten by the best.” Sensing your resignation, Robin opens his mouth and leans down.
“Sorry,” he says, wiping his face with his wrist band. “It’s just Stadium Secret Sauce. I had a couple of brats last inning.” He reaches out a hand and pulls you to your feet, grin on his face, and says “Hope you don’t mind, but it looked like you were in a bit of a pickle.”
“You have no idea,” you think to yourself.
As he finishes with a smirk, “I thought you could use some help…” His face flashes with anger as he pushes you back to the ground.