Disclaimer: Starsky & Hutch don't belong to me, of course. But I do like having a little fun with them.

Peanuts and Popcorn and Cracker Jacks®

By: Vanessa Sgroi

With a big grin on his face, David Starsky hung up the phone and looked over the table at his partner, Ken Hutchinson.

"Hey, Hutch?"

Deep in thought, his partner managed to grunt a distracted, "Yeah?"

"Wanna go to a baseball game?"

Still puzzling over an evidence list on a case, Ken glanced up and muttered, "Huh?"

Starsky rolled his eyes and repeated, "Do you want to go to a baseball game?"

"Baseball game?"

"Yeah, you know—balls, bats, and men running around bases."

"Ahh, I dunno, Starsk, I'm not much of . . ."

"C'mon. I've got tickets to see the Bay City Barracudas play the Carson Cougars tomorrow night."

"Triple A?" groaned Ken.

"Look, I know it's not the Yankees . . ." Starsky paused when Hutch shot him a dirty look, "okay—in your case, the Twins—but it'll still be fun."

When the blond man still hesitated, Dave continued, "Hey, everything will be on me—hot dogs, beer, popcorn—you name it—it's on me."

"You know I don't do junk food."

"Oh, c'mon . . . Live a little."

Seeing his partner's enthusiasm, Hutch finally nodded in agreement, "Okay, fine. I can make an exception. I'll go."

Rubbing his hands together in victory, Starsky hollered, "Yes!"

"I think our seats are down there," Starsky announced.

Hutch followed him to Section A, Row 6.

Starsky stopped and pointed to the right. "Here—right here—Seats G and H. I'll take G—the aisle seat."

Nodding, Hutch sank down into the sun-warmed seat. Now that he was here—out in the fresh air and sunshine—he was determined to have a good time.

Dave plopped down into the seat next to him. "This should be a great game. The Barracudas have been hot their last five games." Starsky opened the program he'd bought at the gate and started pointing out stats on different players. After a few minutes, he closed the program and said, "Hey, why don't I go get us some food, huh? Whaddya say? Hot dogs, beer—sound good?"

"Sure, sure—whatever. Are you sure you don't want some money?" Ken reached for his wallet.

"Nope. I made you come so everything's on me—as promised. Here hold this." Starsky pushed the program into Hutch's hands and took off before Ken could say anything else.

"Excuse me . . ." the deep, booming voice came from far above Ken's left shoulder. Turning his head, Hutch saw a giant of a man standing in the aisle.

"Excuse me," the sweaty, disheveled giant boomed again, "that's my seat on the other side-a you. Seat I. I need in there."

"Oh. Oh, okay. No problem." Hutch stood up and unconsciously sucked in his stomach to allow the big man to squeeze past him. It was a tight fit. Once the man was seated, Hutch again sat but was dismayed to realize the behemoth seated next to him now took up about a third of his space, leaving him listing awkwardly to the left.

When Dave returned some thirty minutes later, arms laden with food, Hutch was sitting with his chin in hand, staring out at the field.

"Sorry it took so long—I had six people in front of me and at least four of them were ordering like twenty of everything. I got us each a coupla hot dogs, chips, peanuts, and beer." As he spoke, Starsky handed Hutch his share of the food and sat down.

"So did I miss anything?"

Hutch grunted and cocked his head to the right, silently pointing out the huge man on his right.

"Oh. Um. Wow. So that's why you're sitting crook—"

"Yeah."

Deciding it was best to change the subject, Dave said, "I got ya extra mustard just like you like."

Each man unwrapped one of their hot dogs and took a bite. Unfortunately, most of that extra mustard Starsky spoke of squirted out of Hutch's and globbed down the front of his shirt.

"Damn," Ken muttered around the food in his mouth, "Did you bring napkins?"

Dave, who was busy woofing down his own frankfurter while intently watching the players warming up on the field, grunted, "Huh?"

Hutch nudged Starsky with his elbow. "Napkins? Did you remember napkins?"

"What? Oh . . . yeah, yeah—here." He reached in his jeans pocket, pulled out a wad of crinkled napkins, and shoved them into Hutch's hand. Seeing the big splotch of mustard on his partner's shirt, he winced. "Uh, sorry about that—guess I put too much, huh?"

"Don't worry about it," Hutch said, cleaning up the mess the best he could.

"Hey, look! There's Mike 'Mad Dog' McDougal!" Dave happily exclaimed, "he's hit at least two home runs in the last five games. He keeps goin' like this; he'll hit the majors for sure."

Not quite as interested or enthused, Hutch finished his first hot dog and peeled back the foil wrapping on his second.

It wasn't long before the game finally got underway. By the third inning, Hutch was somewhat contentedly munching peanuts and sipping the last of his beer.

"Want another one?" asked Starsky.

Knowing their limit was two; Hutch figured earlier was better and nodded.

Dave summoned a roving vendor and requested another beer for each of them.

"Hey, gimme one of those too," growled the behemoth next to Hutch. A heavily-muscled, sweaty arm shot out, clocking Hutch on the cheek and nose.

When Ken let out a startled yelp, the guy muttered, "Hey, sorry, man." He paid for his beer and went back to taking up more than his fair share of space.

It was the fifth inning when 'Mad Dog' McDougal once again came to bat. The cheering crowd quieted as he stepped to the plate. He'd hit a home run and a triple on his first two times at bat and the crowd was electrified, anxiously waiting to see if this time he'd hit another one of his famed home runs.

They didn't have long to wait. The ball cracked hard against the bat on the second pitch and winged its way through center field and way up into the stands. Some lucky Barracuda fan managed to snag the ball out of the air.

Starsky jumped up with a wild cheer. In the process, he unknowingly dumped his nearly full cup of beer into Hutch's lap. Seconds later, the giant's beer, liberated from its cup by the clenching of his beefy fist, geysered over the rest of Hutch's shirt.

When the cheering died down, Dave sat back down and lifted his cup to take a drink.

Finding it empty, he puzzled, "Hey, what happ—oh." His gaze took in Hutch's soaked state.

He hunched his shoulders and said, "Uh, sorry."

"Here—have the rest of mine. I . . . uh . . . I don't think I want anymore."

The rest of the game went uneventfully, at least as far as Hutch was concerned. At the end of the ninth inning, the fans in the stands were ecstatic that the Barracudas came out on top, beating the Cougars 6-4.

Hutch was quiet on his way out of the stadium. Once they reached the Torino, Starsky stared at his damp, grubby, and perturbed-looking partner.

"Listen, Hutch, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you here. I know you couldn't of had a good time. You know, considering . . ." Dave gestured up and down with his hands.

Hutch opened the passenger door, "Who said I didn't have a good time?"

"Well, you . . . you look . . . um . . . irritated."

"Irritated? Me? Nah. Not at all. I'm just tryin' to decide if I can afford season tickets for next year."

Sliding behind the wheel, Starsky decided he didn't really want to know if his partner was serious or not.

The End