Rain, Ramrod, rain

It wasn't supposed to rain. I was assured rain would not fall.

Liars.

The rain fell, ending the game prematurely, just after the top of the seventh. It didn't matter; it was the other team who cried foul, unable to sustain any kind of offense against the devastating, shut-'em-down defense of the Rod.

No matter; the game had been well in Rod's hands after the first inning. The grilling, however ... that's another matter. The sausages may have been safe under the cover of Kevin's man-grill, but the same cannot be said for the Bugles, Triscuits, Cheetos and scads of other chips and dips and cheeses awaiting entry to our hungry tummies.

The mad scramble to keep everything dry was futile as the rain quickly showed us this was one game that Ramrod would not win.

Oh no?

With a few rats jumping off the waterlogged ship, the Rod nonetheless devoured delicious sausages, drank watered-down beer and munched on soggy chips, and held on until the rain, the rain, finally went away.

Ramrod stood, soaked to the marrow but victorious, defiant in the scowling face of the weather, and ready for a second sausage.

Bring it on. The Rod will take it.