The crowd was liquored up. They stomped and swore. But it was all in good fun. No one cared if the opposing team got some verbal abuse. But just in case, the stadium gad security personnel standing between the stands and the field.
Calling them security guards seemed an overstatement. They just stood there mostly. And politely asked fans to stop whatever fan activity the stadium didn’t want to be liable for. I wasn’t sure how secure they actually made the stadium—or any of us watching it.
The guy standing between my section and the field looked earnest enough. He was very serious as he stood there stolidly. He had a wart under his right eye. It stood out against his pale pink face. He was a stocky man, but gave no indication that he knew how to use his bulk in a fight.
He just stood there looking gravely serious. His hair was cropped closely. It was a reddish color. What the Brits might call ginger. He would make me feel very secure indeed—if only I were a jar of marmite.