Another Reason Why I’m a Fan

“Hello?” I said as I answered the phone.

“Did you buy something from the Arizona Diamondbacks?” Trina replied without even giving my hello a response.

“Who is this?” I asked. The silence on the other end made me realize that she might still be a little ticked off about yesterday and that I probably need to quit messing around. “No, I didn’t order anything from the Diamondbacks that I can remember. Why do you ask?”

“A large envelope came for you today and the return address says it is from the Arizona Diamondbacks.” Trina said. I racked my brain trying to remember if I had ordered anything lately from the team without Trina knowing about it.

“No, I don’t think I ordered anything from the Diamondbacks.” I replied. Not that I haven’t ordered something from the team without Trina knowing it; I just didn’t remember doing that this time.

“Can I open it?” Trina asked.

“No, it is a federal offense for you to open mail when it is not addressed to you.” I answered. There are two things you don’t mess with. You never open someone else’s mail and you don’t remove those tags off your mattress. Breaking either of these rules is sure to result in chaos and anarchy and I don’t want to be blamed for that. Dejected Trina hung up the phone. I knew what would happen next. I would be getting calls every hour asking when I was going to be home and whether she could open the package. I’ve played this game before.

When I got home I was met at the door with a large package addressed to me from the Arizona Diamondbacks. It’s not that I didn’t believe Trina when she called to tell me I had a package, it is just that sometimes the actual sight of the box or in this case envelope takes you aback. The envelope was relatively large by Trina’s estimation it was roughly the size of a 9×12 cake pan. Mmmm, cake. I haven’t had cake probably since my birthday. I began to imagine the cake that I had and the great chocolate whipped cream frosting that covered it. Wham! I was brought back into the present with a rap the side of my head and when I refocused I realized Trina had hit me with the Diamondbacks package. It could be a cake pan from the feel of it. I decided that perhaps it would be in my best interest as well as the packages if I were to open it. I carefully opened the end of the package and out slid an envelope with the Diamondbacks logo adorned to the outside. I opened it and it contained a card with this note.


May peace be restored to your house with these additional lunch boxes. Thank you for your continued support!


The Arizona Diamondbacks

As I finished reading the message my jaw dropped open. My kids who had by this time gathered around to see what was going on quickly put the pieces together and rushed for the package. In the commotion the card dropped from my hand. Before the paper could even hit the ground the kids had control of the package removing two pristine shining Todd McFarlane lunch boxes from the August 26 giveaway. There was singing and dancing as Tiffany, Whitney, and Dakota began parading around the house holding their new lunch boxes over their heads. Dakota had his from attending the game. He keeps it at his side like a secret agent carrying national security secrets. All that is missing is a set of handcuffs that attaches the lunch box to his scrawny little arm. So as it if was not bad enough to have Dakota strutting around taunting me with his lunch box; now I get the same routine in triplicate. Oh how these lunch boxes are mocking me!

I must give credit to the Diamondbacks. I have never seen such great customer service as what the team provides. They have once again gone out of their way to make the fans happy. After living through countless battles among the three children over the rightful ownership of the McFarlane lunch box, those fights will be over. Three smiling children have just become Diamondbacks fans for life. Me, I’m still lunch box-less. Maybe if I make a sign that says, “will cheer for lunch boxes” I’ll get one too. Yeah and maybe Byung-Hyun Kim will throw a no-hitter.

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