We wake to find The Yankee has gone off for coffee. It seems he had difficulties in sourcing himself any as he is away for some seven hours… A mysterious fellow is The Yankee. He is becoming more and more enigmatic by the instant. Distant…unknowable… poor on the text-back. Perhaps he’s gone ‘native’. The swifter we get him back to the UK the better, in this man’s opinion.

The rest of us, simpler and more present men, travel way, way across town to attend a baseball game: the New Orleans Zephyrs verses the Omaha Stormchasers. We are quite taken with America’s Pastime, even if the quality of this windy match-up is not spectacularly high. We see one home-run (Omaha) and our beloved Zephyrs go down 3-2.

The highlight of the occasion is that The Big Man and Silver are picked to take part in a mid-innings race of no little hilarity. The Big Man, resplendent in a large, inflatable burger bun, lies supine next to his rival. Silver, swift as coursing lightning, has to run back and forth collecting outsize plastic condiments and fillings to place on The Big Man’s chest, before donning a bun-suit of his own and throwing himself atop the completed burger (and, of course, atop The Big Man).

Things are neck and neck between the two teams until the very last, when a burst of good, English pace sends an airborne Silver home by a yard. Our boys win a $50 voucher for a restaurant we shall never visit..but they also win glory. Sweet, creamy glory.

*

Some time later (damn the public transport in this country – or lack thereof) we return to the hostel laden with beers. We were promised that the hot tub would be nicely warmed for us, but it lies tepid and uninviting. Just as we ponder our next move The Yankee returns, sans coffee, and with no explanation as to his lengthy absence.

We decide to grab a streetcar deeper into the lovely Garden District and find some food, and this we do after a sizable wait for said streetcar. Have I already cursed the public transport in this country? I have? In this very blog post? Smashing.

A very fine meal is enjoyed by all, save for The Yankee who ordered the cheeseburger at a restaurant named (quite appropriately) ‘Superior Seafood’. Many of the lads have char-grilled oysters and all are well-pleased. The Eagle, hip young thing that he is, has raw oysters. He then has a comedically large allergic reaction, much to our gratification.

Back at the hostel the hot tub is still icy as a second-hand igloo, so we sink our beers in the communal area and listen to music of inconsistent quality. Andthesea has another crack at the guitar, with a little more success than his Friday set. Clapton, Hendrix, Andthesea – it’s only a matter of time. The Yankee disappears again, wearing a very smart purple shirt as yet unseen on this holiday. We ask him where he heads but he leaves without a word, a faraway look in his intelligent eye. Curiouser and curiouser.

Soon after this the other four head into town for more carousing and rambunctious high-jinks, but my tank, I am sad to say, has run dry. There is a flickering red light a-flashin’ on the Mansfield dashboard, and it is time for me to head to bed. It is our final full day in the States tomorrow, and I’ll need to be on tip-top form.