Miggy’s going to make history tonight, my boyfriend says to me, the Michelob sloshing through his words. The 500th win is ours tonight. A teen flips a number on the fan-made sign from 496 to 497. My boyfriend’s shoulder bumps into my arm, knocking my cell phone on the mustard soaked pavement. The crowd’s shouts vibrate the bleachers to a hush as Miggy (I think) slides into third base. He almost had it, he says to me. The Tigers or the Orioles call time out.

The Kiss Cam swivels to a gray-haired man with a worn jersey obliges his wife with a sweet peck on the cheek. A fortysomething woman and man, wearing homemade “Always A Tigers Fan” tshirts, share a respectable smooch. My boyfriend pumps his fist as the camera focuses on us. The steam from his lips trickles with last afternoon’s last cigarette, anticipating the 15 seconds of fame. We’ll be on television, finally have our moment. I gulp and face the screen. Harmonious “oohs” follow me as I squeeze through the aisle.

The video circulates on my feed over and over. Some comments said it was staged. We were actors, getting paid for the night. Hundreds of people suggested I dump my drink on him in the threaded replies. It would’ve been more exciting. The views go higher every time I take a step back. Tomorrow, Miggy plays for his 500th home run again. 

Pam Avoledo is a graduate of Oakland University.