The suburban loser is on his third beer at the baseball game, promising his wife he'll sip this one slow. He tries to mark errors and RBIs with a pencil on the score sheet, but it's hard to make out the jersey numbers from the upper deck and hard to focus on the announcer because his youngest son is asking a million questions about the game. The ninth inning ends after the Tigers strike out three times in a row, and most of the crowd begins to leave. But not everyone. It's Friday night in the summer, which means there are fireworks after the game. The suburban loser winks at the family and says follow me, leading them from the upper deck down towards the field where the plushy seats are and where they can be closest to the action when the fireworks ignite. He asks his eldest son if he'd like a hot dog or something, and he says sure, and the suburban loser is glad to see something in his hands other than a gameboy. He gets another beer while they're still selling them because his wife might want one later, and he carefully carries both plastic cups through the concrete tunnels and down the steps, sometimes turning his head to make sure his family is still with him, which they are, his eldest son with fresh mustard stains around his lips and his youngest son falling asleep in his wife's arms. The suburban loser finds a row of high quality empty seats right on the third base line. The eldest son asks if it's okay to sit there without the right tickets but the suburban loser ignores him and settles in to watch workers in bright yellow vests unfold huge canvas tarps to protect the outfield while others drive trucks loaded with pallets of fireworks to the pitcher’s mound. His wife points the pieces of equipment out to their youngest son as he rests his head on her shoulder while their eldest son fiddles with the brim of the baseball cap his uncle got him for Christmas. The suburban loser takes tiny sips of the second cup of beer but only so it doesn’t slosh over the lip. As the preparations conclude and the lights dim in the stadium, four young men come over and accuse the suburban loser of stealing their seats. They each have ticket stubs in one hand and beers of their own in the other. The suburban loser says no, these are his seats, and besides there are plenty of other empty ones around them. The young men say it doesn't matter, they paid for those seats and the suburban loser's family needs to move. One of them raises his voice. The suburban loser stands up and tells the young men to fuck off, he's not moving, but as he rises from his seat, his eldest son jumps up and tugs on the suburban loser's arm. The tug sends his beer flying down the concrete steps. Startled, the suburban loser tries to shake his eldest son off his arm and spills the other beer he was holding, too, this one all over his blue jeans. It looks like he pissed himself. The young men start laughing and tell the suburban loser he's drunk and should probably listen to his fat little kid. The suburban loser says nothing but makes the family leave abruptly. They hear the boom of the fireworks echo through the parking lot as they look for their car.