Sweet Tea

In the midst of a summer heat wave, a few friends and I went to a Saturday night baseball game. It was hot. It was stinkin’ hot. Hair frizzed, program books soaked up sweat and even the flag couldn’t find the energy to fly. I don’t know who we played, how we played or if we won but I remember the heat leeching onto my skin. I recall my mind wandering to the upcoming season of ice hockey and crisp autumn days of football.

I heard the food vendor before I saw him. “Sweet tea,” he cried. “Sweet tea. Who wants some sweet tea?” In plastic cups filled with melting ice, he carried the entire southern culture in his hands. He sold to men wearing sleeveless t-shirts and to women wearing loose cotton frocks and cowboy boots. He sold to men and women carrying gun permits and holding the fear of God. He sold to a multi-generational crowd who grew up on sweet tea and church suppers; sweet tea and family reunions; sweet tea and green beans slow cooked, with just a touch of bacon grease, all day long.

The strains of the national anthem played over the noise of cicadas and the crowd rose in unison. Baseball caps and cowboy hats were removed and without athletic skill, we formed a team bigger than pageant hair and longer than a southern drawl. On that sweltering summer night, in a diverse crowd eating corn dogs and fried pies, we united around country, baseball and our prized sweet tea.