The atmosphere was what one expected from an American championship sporting event-loud, exuberant, a bit drunken.
Except in minor league soccer the crowd was a little weirder, slightly off societal kilter in many cases, plus a few community college washouts who once had dreams of Europe and eight-figure transfer fees.
Ketchum drew the west bar out of the dozen booze stations operating, close to the visiting supporters section.
He’d crack hundreds of craft ciders, pour dozens of shots of cinnamon whiskey, and walk home with about two hundred bucks in tips.
The line of about twelve people was still in a great mood, smiling, laughing. They would get more impatient as game time approached. They rarely complained, but Ketchum could sense it.
“Holeyshit! Holeyshitholeyshit!”
Ponner had cut past the line and just about bounced off Ketchum’s wooden vendor stall. He looked like he had run a 5K.
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