If it’s Friday in New York and you’ve just gotten back from winter in Sydney and Maud’s just gotten back from summer in the French countryside, then it must be time for a Cyclones game at Coney Island. We walked on the boardwalk in the salty sea breeze to the cutest little stadium in the world, where our high-class twelve-dollar seats waited for us. There was a hotdog eaten, and fries, and a bit of a pretzel, and some pink candy floss. Then I felt ill.



We didn’t get the game, and then, as night fell, as the lights came on in the stadium and on the Wonder Wheel and the Cyclone rollercoaster, as ball was played, we did. The Cyclones rocked, the Hudson Valley Renegades sucked. Kids danced in the aisles. The obnoxious guy behind us bellowed “We will we will rock you” and “Let’s go Cyclones” and, puzzlingly, “Left right left right.” During the seventh inning, everyone got to their feet. “Why is everyone getting up?” I asked. “It’s the seventh-inning stretch,” Jeff said. I laughed. “No, really,” he said. Then the music came on and everyone burst into “Take Me out to the Ballgame.” I didn’t know more than, um, “Take me out to the ballgame,” but Jeff prompted me with each line so I could sing with gusto. Then Neil Diamond popped up on the big screen, and said, “Come sing along with me,” and “Sweet Caroline” filled the cool night air. Good times never seemed so good. Hello again, America.