When the Yanks Come to Town

I would like to begin by thanking the old man and kid for taking me to the park on Tuesday for my birthday.  I didn’t even have to beg!  I fear I will never again receive this best of all gifts, because the guy sitting behind my husband spilled beer on him, not once, but twice.  The first time was relatively benign, because it spilled at his feet, and he was able to avoid much more than sticky soles.  The second time, a fly ball was hit to left, deep, and the guy jumped up in a rush of excitement to witness the ball land safely in Ichiro’s glove, depositing his beer down my husband’s back in the process.  Now, a person who does not drink is possibly the worst one to douse with suds, and although he accepted the abashed apologies of the overzealous fan with as much equanimity as he could muster, he was rather put out--on the inside--you know?  The worst part was that the guy was awkwardly dabbing the spouse’s back with wadded up stadium napkins.  I tried to intervene and do it myself, but the whole thing was a shambles at that point.  Thankfully, the whole evening was not ruined, and I have to say that the old man shook it off quicker than I might have.

There were a couple of Yankee fans in front of us, quiet, on the down low Yankee fans, who sported no Yankee gear, and did no visible cheering.  In fact, I didn’t realize they WERE Yankee fans, until Andy Dirks tried to stretch a double into a triple.  I lamented that the scoreboard will not show replays of negative/controversial plays.  The guys turned around and said “negative?”  To which I responded in the decided affirmative, YES, NEGATIVE.  They laughed and one guy asked in a rather surprised tone “you’re keeping books?”  It’s a sad commentary that folks are still taken aback by a girl keeping score.

Miguel Cabrera, ladies and gentlemen.  If you live in the area and don’t get off your keester to see the guy in person, you must not like baseball that much.  All Miguel does is go out there and put up MVP caliber numbers year after year.  Ho hum.  He doesn’t make a lot of himself.  Doesn’t appear to relish talking himself up, as evidenced by him bodily dragging Austin Jackson into the post-game interview the other night.  I don’t think I exaggerated by once saying that there would be “mobs of teary-eyed fans barreling toward him, jumping into his arms, and suffocating him in the clutches of gratitude.”  He’s that good.  Enjoy the show.  Players of his caliber don’t come along every draft, you know.

Ok.  Let us chat about the 9^th, shall we?  I want to try to describe the feeling I had while watching runners at second and third, with Curtis Granderson at the dish.  I was standing up, but probably should have sat down.  I had a queasy, slightly unsteady sensation flowing lurchingly through my body.  I kept blinking my eyes looking at those baserunners standing forebodingly in scoring position, and my mind couldn’t get away from the fact that Grandy could easily launch one out on the very next pitch.  I was sitting behind the Yankee pen, and David Robertson had begun warming.  He paused to bend down and watch the next pitch when Curtis let Papa Grande off the hook by popping out to Fielder.  Geez.  Witnessing Valverde flush a win down the toilet isn’t on my bucket list.