Man, I don’t even like the Yankees. I think they’re kinda arrogant. That’s unsubstantiated judgment but I feel like somehow they get to have all this payroll over everyone else and thus they always get (buy) their glory. And their fans — nearly every year, they have expected victory. They don’t know the savor of waiting, the sweet temptation of magic. But tonight they came in handy.
It was during the ninth inning. I was at the neighborhood market and while I was paying for some grub some dude waltzed in with his girlfriend. They got something and then got in line behind me. Suddenly he says: “Wow they were down by three and then came back?”
Maybe he had read the score wrong. Maybe he didn’t know what he was seeing.
“Uh, actually they were down by two when Ibañez tied it up with a flyer to right while Teixeira was at second,” I offered.
The TBS announcers had annoying voices, so I had ignored their commentary while I was shopping. What came out of my mouth were words and an observation that were foreign to me prior to 2009.
(All right. I don’t know if “flyer” is an accurate abbreviation for “fly ball.”)
Meanwhile, I was stared at. Next to the man whose world I had upended, the lady was grinning.
I shrugged and turned to give the cashier my money. I’m sorry that I seem to have emasculated that man in front of his girl. And yet.
Sometimes it feels good to be a douchey male, after all.
Also, I know that I said “Ibañez” and “Teixeira” right.