I was at the ballpark watching the Winston-Salem
Warthogs lose to Kinston in a Single A struggle. The
beer was cold, the hot dogs a dollar. They announced
Wally the Warthog was behind the home dugout
selling T-shirts—five bucks, all sizes. I joined the
crowd and bought an XL. Wally was having a ball as
he yelled, flipped the bird to the umpires, and collected
five dollar bills by the handful. I got closer and asked
him if this was better than his day job. His glass eyes
gleamed, his jaw seemed to move as he answered,
you'll never know.
