Honey, I’m sorry I messed up our moment on the kiss cam.
I’m sorry I mouthed “That’s my sister!” and made a face like yuck while jerking my thumb at you, my loving wife of thirty-one years. I’m sorry I couldn’t look you in the eye and, instead, doubled-down and began talking loudly about our shared childhood, even though there is no audio on the kiss cam.
When you kicked my foot, and I realized you were mad, I’m sorry that I tried to make it up to you with a tongue-forward kiss, forgetting that the crowd believed you to be my sister. I’m sorry you had to hear 14,000 people make a collective noise of shock and disgust while your beautiful face was projected on the largest possible screen.
I’m sorry that this all happened after the screen was expanded in 2024.
I’m sorry that I stood up to address our section and let them know that we actually have a very loving and often erotic relationship. I understand now that I shouldn’t have offered to prove it.
I’m sorry I spent the entire fourth inning searching for another camera operator so that I could beg for a second chance.
I’m sorry that they sent the mascot over to “keep it light,” and instead he chose to disrespect me as a man—okay, okay, I mean I’m sorry that when the mascot came over and made a big cartoonish show of winning you over, even going so far as to dip you, I grabbed him by the arm so hard he broke character. Can you admit that there’s no way he could’ve felt that through the suit? Okay, fine.
I’m sorry that this happened to be the game where we met our son’s fiancée’s parents. I’m sorry that when I tried to fight the mascot, I asked her father to back me up.
I’m sorry that no one appreciated my toast, where I explained to our children that forgiveness is the cornerstone of a lasting relationship, and that sometimes the best thing we can do for our relationship is pretend to be siblings—which is a perfectly natural reaction to stage fright—and that perhaps everybody shares a little bit of blame here. Okay, okay.
For all my missteps, I will not apologize for what happened late in the eighth inning. After everything we’d been through, the ballpark choosing me for the eating-in-reverse cam could not have been interpreted as anything other than a pointed, personal attack. I tried to be a good sport, and I will not seek forgiveness for that. However, I am sorry that I thought I was responsible for creating the “reverse” effect. That some of the chewed hot dog ended up in your beer was not intentional, honey, so I do think I deserve to be let off the hook for that.