TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALL GAME . . .
We stayed an extra day in the Chicago area, and were able to get some fairly good seats at Wrigley Field (not that there are any bad seats there) to see the Cubs host the Reds. I consider a pilgrimage to the friendly confines to be an essential part of any springtime visit to the Windy City. A fine time was had by all, including the Little Rankster, and the Cubs defeated the boys from Cincy by a score of seven to three.
A couple of innings into the game, my wife started smiling and pointed to a man seated a little to the side and one row in front of us. “Isn’t that Paul Offit?” she asked. The spectator she pointed to indeed bore a resemblance to everyone’s favorite shill, but I didn’t think it was him. The odds of him being in Chicago were slim. This man had a much thinner face than the dark one (not that Dr. O is fat anywhere except the wallet, but the man near us was very lean). And if Paul Offit was at the game, he could probably find a luxury box to which he could get himself invited.
Still, I enjoyed the potential irony of being in such proximity to the man I call “the blogger’s buddy” (so called because he manages to provide so many opportunities to write a post pointing out the absurdities of his many public statements). When our neighbor got up to leave, he picked up a tote bag, bearing the brand name Imitrex. It was one of those promotional goodies the pharmaceutical companies shower upon doctors.
Of course, Imitrex is a product of GlaxoSmithKline; had it been Merck, I would have admitted to my wife that she had spotted the real deal. On the other hand, could it have been him? That would be worth a “Holy Cow!”