I stepped into the lobby of my hotel on Seventh Street to meet the cab I had called for. Outside, the valet was conversing with a middle-aged man in board shorts holding a highball glass. As I stepped out onto the sidewalk, the clearly intoxicated man gave me a once-over and slurred out, "You're wearing the wrong shirt." His lips split a smile and he swigged down the last of his drink as I shuffled around his long, looping steps towards the valet. I climbed into the cab and headed for Busch Stadium as Board Shorts whipped his grey goatee towards the lobby and the hotel bar beyond.
Some transplanted evening: A night at Busch
