I like to consider myself a man with a rock-solid sense of ethics, seldom do I vacillate and, less often, am I baffled by situations of ethical ambiguity. In short, I'm usually Kenny Powers confident in this category.
Last night, however, I was stumped by baseball. While my distinct enmity for The New York Yankees---that special venom that sits on my taste buds anytime I see pinstripes---required that I celebrate in New York's misery after taking a veritable ass-whuppin' at the hands of The Texas Rangers, I was somewhat conflicted by the aforementioned celebration. For two reasons:
The first---and I couldn't quite get past this---stemmed from the image in Game 2 of former-president GW Dipshit clapping in the stands at Arlington. Like most liberals, I will never forgive The Lonestar State for eight years of violence, kowtowing to the rich while the middle-class was obliterated, and pure, unfettered, ass-in-my-hands stupidity. Can I really rejoice with a team that was owned and supported by this clown? This is also the state where Darth Sidious, aka Dick Cheney, blew off his buddy's face with buck shot, an ancillary yet pertinent side note.
Then there was the simple fact that the team celebrated their victory by spraying ginger ale all over each other. Now, I have nothing but admiration for Josh Hamilton and the way he turned around his life; however, as a fan of baseball and a bit of a traditionalist, there's something flat-out wrong about this scenario. Admittedly, all male athletic celebrations reek of homoeroticism, and I'm cool with that. But I can't quite seem to wrap my head around the ginger ale. Sure, it's a sweet and touching story, but, goddamn, it's just wrong.
Nonetheless, I'm still slightly giddy by the fact that 1.) The $2oo million All-Stars got spanked by a team with a regular reason record comparable to Red Sox; 2.) It was A-Rod, who The Spank-boys paid Texas plus his exorbitant salary, watching the final strike; and C.) The fucking Yankees lost! While I know and anticipate The Yankee fan response ("The Red Sox were playing golf" and "Who has 27 rings?"), the German word for what I'm feeling is "schadenfreude," or taking pleasure in someone else's misery. And were the tables turned, Yankee fans would be singing the exact same tune.
After The Yankees go on another ridiculous Hot Stove spending spree and land Cliff Lee and Carl Crawford and every other aging free-agent asking for a gaudy salary, I'll be regretting this post. But for right now, the word is "schadenfreude." And right now, I left my heart in San Francisco. Go Giants!