One evening several years ago, I did a very foolish thing, one that I have been regretting ever since. I drank wine at a baseball game. But honestly, it could have happened to anyone. It could have happened to you. Which is why I'll tell you about it. To keep you from making the same mistake.
I'd been invited to a corporate skybox at Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia on a midsummer night. And what with the chain-hotel-conference-room ambience, the lawyers grabbing for the liter bottles of generic Chardonnay in the cooler and the steam-tabled mini egg rolls, it seemed natural enough to pour myself a glass.
But when I took a few sips and settled back to enjoy the singular sensation that usually occurs when spectator sport and alcohol come together in the frontal lobe of the male brain, something felt terribly wrong. The sights and sounds of the game were not being enhanced by the grape. In fact, the two didn't get along at all.