Baseball Season

I've been told I have "one of those faces." 

It's the kind of face that makes old ladies stand close to me on the subway platform or ask me to reach cans of creamed corn for them from the top shelf of Key Food.  The kind that in high school received invitations from special needs students to go to dinner with them at a place called J.J. Boomers.  The kind that makes deranged panhandlers talk to me on the subway while the rest of the passengers sit and observe.  The kind that compels my hairdresser to tell me about her breast augmentation and neglectful husband while she highlights my hair.

My Mother also has this kind of a face, as does my sister.  It runs in the family.

A few things I'm told on a regular basis:

• "You never get angry."
• "I can't even picture you raising your voice!" (Hubby finds that one especially hilarious.)
• "Don't you ever stop smiling, Smiley?"
• "You are the sweetest person I've ever met."
• "You could tell every customer that walks into this restaurant to fuck off and nobody would ever believe it."  (Once told to me by a manager when I was a hostess at Vinnie Testa's.  Gee, thanks!  I think?)

Anyone who knows me well is aware that these observations are wildly false.  Just because a person smiles a lot doesn't necessarily mean they are wishing goodwill towards every Tom, Dick and Harriet.  It just appears that way. 

A theatrical man that I used to do catering with once called me on this.  He noted that I used smiling as a coping mechanism, a way of keeping the world at a safe distance.  (Well, he mimed the latter half of his observation, but I understood what he meant because I speak mime.)  I didn't disagree with him.  Incidentally, a few years later I saw him on TV dancing in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  He messed up twice.  It was the weirdest thing ever.

I'm aware that my smiling enables me to get away with a lot, albeit causing people to view me as a grinning imbecile.  Another thing it lends me is the element of surprise...

It's unfortunate that the story I'm about to tell you is being told on Good Friday, since it does contain a number of filthy words.  Having said this, I'll try and make it as holy as possible in keeping with the spirit of Easter.

It begins with the Red Sox.  I think it's safe to say that somewhere along the line I've intertwined my love for the Red Sox with my pride and loyalty for my home, the state of Massachusetts. I know, I know, if I loved being a masshole so much why am I living in the Empire State?  If only it were that simple.

Nothing makes me feel more homesick than leaving Yankee Stadium after the Sox have been defeated.  Truly, it's as if some demonic monster crawls into my belly, turning me from a (mostly) mild mannered girl into a possessed, rabid wildwoman. 

Example?  2003, game seven of the ALCS.  I was tearfully walking towards the 6 Train after Aaron Boone's homer had transformed the greatest night ever into a complete and utter crapfest.  Some jerk in front of me saw a kid wearing a Nomar Garciapara jersey and began screaming, "No-maaah, No-Maaaahhh!!"  Unable to stop myself, I took the black stretchy gloves I'd been clutching and, well, smacked the fuckface on the head with them.  It felt really good and at the same time shut the guy up.  Thank God he never suspected it was me.   

I cried all the way home from the Bronx that night and most of the next day, too.  I remember my Dad, a big baseball fan himself, called me and said, "I know it's depressing, but try to put it in perspective and remember it's just a game..."

That year it felt like more than that, though.  We had literally watched every single game, and this was before we had our DVR, so I'm talking VHS recordings that we would tape for the times we couldn't watch it live. I'd been on the phone with Nan, my baseball fanatic Grandmother, for a number of these games, laughing as she whooped and roared at the television.  (This is the woman who back in the day screamed out "Come on, Yaz!!" into an eerily silent Yankee Stadium.  As her voice echoed throughout the stands my Grandfather started to get a little nervous.  I mean, he could take on two or three guys but probably not all of the Bronx.) 

In 2004 we found ourselves at game six of the ALCS, the night Curt Schilling's sock turned bloody.  I had finally learned my lesson from the myriad of rowdy Yankee/Sox games we had attended in NY: I wasn't wearing any red, I wasn't even cheering loudly.  I was the embodiment of the three C's: calm, cool, and collected.  (Cautiously so.)   

My peaceful mood lasted until A-Rod smacked the ball out of Bronson Arroyo's glove while Hubby (back then my boyfriend) was peeing/getting another beer downstairs.  The crowd went wild, but I wasn't sure why.  I turned to the guy next to me, who'd been friendly with us throughout the entire game, and asked, "Did you see what just happened?" 

His answer?  "Shut up or I'll punch you in your fucking face." 

Hmmm.  So did this mean he wasn't going to tell me what the ump had decided?

The dormant Green Monster inside of me began to stir.  When Hubby returned I calmly told him what had transpired, and he in turn went to the police officer standing a few feet away and spoke to him.  The cop came over and asked the would be fucking face puncher and his friend to leave. 

Looking back on it, I still feel justified in this act.  After all, I wasn't whooping, I wasn't screaming, I wasn't holding any foolish signs.  That night, perhaps for the first time ever, I was simply quietly watching the game.

OK, maybe I felt slightly embarrassed.  To reassure myself, I turned to the girl who'd been sitting with her boyfriend behind us and whispered, "That guy said he was going to punch me in my effing face, can you believe it?"

"I can't believe you had him MOVED.  That was a ridiculous thing to do."  The girl was angry.  And who could blame her?  Her team was losing. 

Please know that I have only said the word I am about to describe once.  (Although some family members are under the delusion I said it to a bartender on **The Infamous New Year's Eve of 2003 in Hoboken, NJ, but that was my Cousin, not me.  I do wish somebody would set the record straight on that one...)

What prompted me to utter that which I was about to utter?  I cannot say.  I only know I calmly, cooly, and collectedly turned to the disgruntled Yankee girl and uttered the following filthy words: "Well, f*#@ you, you f#@*ing (See You Next Tuesday)."

Yes, Her Royal Highness of Bad Words, the C word.  (And I don't mean cute, cuddly, or Celtic.)  I mean the nasty, rage-inducing C word.  And rage-induce it did.  The girl started screaming, the boy went ballistic: "WHAT?!!  Did you hear what she just called my wife?!!"  He went straight over to the same police officer and now it was his turn to tattle.

Woopsie. 

The police officer came over, beckoned to us to come with him, and with that, we were off.  I waved goodbye to the mousy C word and her dingus husband. 

As he led us down the ramp, the cop began to speak.  "I'm sorry, Sweetie, these people are animals.  Come on, let's move closer to the field." 

What the?  This man was taking us...down to the field level!  Was this the prize for using A Very Bad Word?  (Well, technically I had used more than one...)

I felt the need to explain myself: "Officer...I wasn't exactly a Saint myself.  I said a really disgusting word." 

"Well, it's a heated game, but I'm sorry those jerks were so rude to you guys."

He led us down to the field level, where we watched the final innings of the game.  The Red Sox won.  Hubby and I had no doubt, this year they were actually going to do it.  But that's another story...

Ma couldn't believe that baseball had inspired her youngest born to utter such filth: "Honestly, I can't picture that word coming out of your mouth."

I'm not sure I can believe it, either, but it did happen.  I have to say, although I've haven't used that word since (in public, at least) if I had to do it all again, I (probably) might not change a thing.

My official rules for Red Sox/Yankee games in Yankee Stadium are currently as follows:

1. Remain calm.  And mostly sober.
2. Don't talk to strangers.   
3. Wear neutral colors (save the skanky Varitek tanks for Fenway)
4. Do NOT make a Red Sox sign that says "The rain can't keep us from Remy!"  (Especially if the game isn't even on NESN that night.  Learned that one the hard way.)
5. Don't react to Yankee fans yelling out horrifying things like, "Osama hit the wrong state." 
6. Don't scream "Boston!!  Yeahhhh!!" at the top of your lungs, over and over and over until you lose your voice.
7. And lastly, please don't say bad words or hit people with your black stretchy gloves.  You'll only feel ashamed of yourself in the morning and make your Mother disappointed in you.  And who wants that, really.  Not this Broad.

Play ball!

**The Infamous New Year's Eve of 2003 involves alcohol, New Jersey, belligerence, and myself, two cousins and their girlfriends being asked to leave a bar while my husband was still on stage performing with his band.  It's still kind of a touchy subject but with appropriate permission maybe I'll write about it someday.  It might be cathartic. 

Comments

[Glossed Over]

At least you and your husband are rooting for the same team. Every time college football season rolls around, the rival I want to punch is my fiance. :)

[WeinerDog]

My Paulie is one of those people who thinks you are soooo cute & sweet!
I've told him & told him not to be fooled!
He also thought I was sweet & cute too though!
Hah!