Disclaimer: I'm not a sports fan, and can't remember the last time (if ever) I was at a ball game, unless you count my little brother's games in the 90's. Those were sweaty, suffering-in-the-bleachers affairs when I was much too young to toss back a few and get into it. But last night, the City Newspaper staff went out to Frontier Field for a Red Wings game, and though Aubrey and I (she shows up in this blog all the time, can I stop preceding her name with "my friend" and hope you get the gist?) weren't exactly enthused about the prospect of sitting through a game we really didn't care about, we went, minds focused on soft pretzels, fried dough, ice cream, and, yes, beer.

Walking into the stadium, you couldn't deny the sense of anticipation in the air, just like before any major concert or event. It gave me some butterflies. Kids ran around with ice cream cones and hot dogs. Aubrey bought a pretzel. It was sadly cold. I bought a beer. It was happily cold.

We found our seats, and they were so close to the field that the ballplayers were within earshot. We discussed the possibility of a ball flying our way. Would we shriek like little girls or try to catch the thing? Never got the chance to find out.

The game got underway, and the rest of our crowd showed up. You could pick out Red Wings fans in the rest of the stadium (and peg how serious they were) by their red, black, and yellow attire.

Since I'm not even a casual fan, I'll spare you my naïve commentary. But what I can say is it was a thrill every time a player really went for it, diving into second base, sending a ball sailing into the night, or catching a seemingly impossible catch.

We left before the game had finished - we wanted to beat the crowd to the parking lot - and the score was 2-0, Red Wings. In our section, we'd consumed fried dough, pretzels, a garbage plate dog, Blue Light, Highland Lager, Scotch Ale, ice cream coated with sprinkles, and way more. The conversation, laughter, and yes, the game itself, all made me want to go again.