It's "wrath." Silent "w".
Look here, I could let this go without articulating it, but that would be doing a dis-service to the young man.
Let's talk about Swamp Butt.
Ya, Maniac, you thought we didn't notice you squirming around in your seat down there. The faint smell of fecal matter wafting up out of your shorts.
You thought we didn't notice.
Well, we did.
Here's the thing. There's a simple solution you should be aware of, Son: Baby Wipes.
Here's the deal-io: Sometime earlier in the day you, like most of us, took a dump. Ain't no big thing (well, maybe it was, but I digress...). It's totally natural, we all do it, etc. etc. But it does have consequences, especially on a steamy Friday afternoon sitting on hot, steamy, sweaty metal bleachers squeazed in there next to Illini, etc.
What you do, Son, in anticipation of the obvious capillary effects of your BM, is get some Baby Wipes and zip them into a sandwich-sized ziplock and slide that into your left-hand back pocket (presumably the opposite side of where you keep your wallet, just bulging with Daddy's cash). Then, when that itchy feeling starts, down there, you excuse yourself to "get a water" or "get some nachos"--"you want anything?", and then you head to the bathroom--DURING an inning, not in between, so as to avoid crowds--and you go utilize those Wipes as they were intended, and blissfully cool off the Swamp Butt raging in your shorts.
Here endeth one of many valuable lessons.
That is all.
Thank you for your attention.