By Bronwyn Romy, Guest Columnist
The Sweet Potato
Okay, so I need to confess something: I have a butt situation.
Not a medical situation. More like… a spatial awareness problem that stems from twenty years of squats, lunges, and to some people, a genetic gift. My husband Brad calls it “stadium seating” as a joke. I call it “the reason I can’t buy normal jeans.”
Last night, we took our son Tommy to his first real baseball game. We got there EARLY—like, before batting practice, watch-the-grounds-crew-get the-field-ready-early. Brad’s one of those “arrive before the national anthem” people, and honestly, I was excited too. He claims that the “beer is cheaper before first pitch.” Tommy wore his jersey and brought his glove, convinced he’d catch a foul ball.
We found our seats—Section 217, Row L—and settled in. Everything was perfect. We were responsible fans. Early birds. Punctual patriots of America’s pastime.
And then, approximately eight minutes after we sat down, Tommy discovered that nachos existed.
“Mom. MOM. Can I get nachos? And a blue slushie? Please? PLEASE?”
I looked at Brad. Brad looked at me. We’d literally just sat down.
“I’ll go,” I volunteered, because I’m the mom and this is apparently my life now.
Here’s where my nemesis enters the story: the man in Row K, Seat 14, directly in front of us. He’d arrived even EARLIER than us, which I didn’t think was possible. He had that energy—the posture of someone mentally calculating the cost-per-minute of his ticket purchase. The expression of a man who’d shown up 47 minutes early specifically to avoid people like me.
Our row had filled up fast. Everyone loves getting there early, apparently. I guess Brad is right about something…beer is apparently cheaper at this point of the event. So I had to do the sideways shuffle past an entire row of settled, snacked-up, beverage-holding spectators.
“Excuse me, sorry, excuse me—”
I turned sideways—the standard packed-row maneuver—but here’s the thing about turning sideways when you’ve been doing Bulgarian split squats three times a week for two decades: geometry betrays you. What should be your smallest profile becomes your LARGEST profile. My athletic posterior, built by deadlifts and determination, swung directly into the back of Row K Guy’s head.
Contact.
Firm contact.
His head actually moved forward slightly, like a bobblehead on a dashboard.
“Oh my GOSH, I’m so sorry!” I yelped.
He turned around in slow motion. Looked at me like I’d just keyed his car. Shook his head with the disappointment of a man who’d expected better from humanity and been personally victimized by my glutes.
I wanted to die. “I really didn’t mean—”
He turned back around, shoulders rigid, radiating the energy of someone mentally composing a strongly-worded letter to stadium management about rear-end safety protocols.
I escaped to the concourse, got Tommy his nachos and nuclear-waste-colored slushie, and headed back. Maybe, I thought, I could time it perfectly. Wait for a play. Squeeze through during the excitement when everyone’s distracted.
But Tommy was doing that kid thing where he’s vibrating with anticipation, and Brad was giving me the “please hurry before he loses it” look.
Deep breath. Back into the row.
This time, I had a strategy. I turned the OTHER way. Chest-first instead of booty-first. Genius, right?
Wrong.
Because when you turn chest-first, you have to lean BACK to avoid bumping people with your front. And when you lean back with an athletic posterior that has its own center of gravity, while also holding nachos and a slushie…
THUMP.
Same guy. Same head. Different angle. Plus, I’m pretty sure some cheese splashed onto his shoulder.
This time my gym-honed glutes made contact with his head like a wrecking ball of pure athletic achievement and bad spatial planning.
The head shake was slower this time. Deeper. More philosophical. Like he was questioning not just my existence, but the existence of human beings in general. Why do we even HAVE bodies? Why must we take up SPACE? Why must children require NACHOS?
“I AM SO SORRY,” I said, and I meant it. I really did. “I have a… there’s a lot of… leg day is really…”
He didn’t respond. Just stared straight ahead at the game he was definitely not enjoying, probably wondering why he hadn’t just watched from home where rogue posteriors can’t assault him.
I finally made it back to my seat and handed Tommy his contraband nachos. Brad was trying not to laugh.
“You hit him again?”
“It’s not funny!”
“It’s a little funny.”
“I’ve been doing squats for TWENTY YEARS, Brad. And you’ve never complained about my backside! No, NOT ONCE! That’s why I have my winning hand up every morning at 4:45 to get to the gym! So that I don’t wipe out a whole row! We got here EARLY. We did everything RIGHT. And I still somehow assaulted that man twice with my butt before the third inning.”
Tommy, bless his oblivious little heart, was just thrilled about his nachos. We had a great time. Our team won. Tommy caught a T-shirt from the mascot.
But I keep thinking about that man. Somewhere out there, he’s probably writing a review: “Arrived early to avoid crowds. Was assaulted twice by the same athletic posterior within 20 minutes. Two stars. One for each cheek.”
I’m never doing leg day again.
(That’s a lie. Leg day is tomorrow. But I’m DEFINITELY getting aisle seats next time.)
