Now that Opening Day is less than forty-eight hours away, my blog is getting back to business, getting back to baseball. There's no more space for foolishness and frivolities on here. I'll be getting back to the type of in-depth analysis you won't find in your local news rags. I have tunnel-vision, a singular focus, laser beams, folks.
So last week I was at the local watering hole, the place where I like to watch the Sox games and provide color-commentary for people who want to punch me. I was watching Josh Beckett, yet again, confound Red Sox fans---confounding in the sense that no one really understands how or why he got that fat-ass contract when all signs are pointing to "washed-up." Between Beckett, Ortiz, and Drew's contracts, you could pay my tabs for the rest of my life, and I'm convinced, the money would be better spent.
I digress in this digressive post. So I was watching the game with Roger, one of my bar buddies, and we finished our beers at the same time. While I was bitching about Beckett, Sylvia, our ebullient bartender, slid us refills, and I happened to glance at Roger's glass.
"Nice glass, asshole," I said.
Roger, who was watching the game, looked at his beer. The damned Yankee glass. "What can I do? It's already poured."
Now, Roger had what we call a "two-choice dilemma." For some ungodly reason, my local watering hole has a pint glass with a Yankee symbol on it: the wretched Uncle Sam hat on the top of a bat that makes me want to puke in my mouth. In the past, when I've been served a beer in the offending pint glass, I've kindly asked to have it poured in a different mug, and if the bartender is not too busy, usually they'll accommodate my request. But the question stands: Why, in a New England bar, does such a glass this exist?
I inquired within. It seems that a customer, a regular, brought in the glass and requests to drink from it. Fair enough. Yet still, would this kind of offense occur in a local bar in New York City? In Albany? Hell, in Western Connecticut?
Growing up, Yankee fans in New England, like Beckett's contract, perplexed me. Pre-2004, I asked my father to explain the phenomenon to me. I was but a wee-child, a moo-moo cow. My dad told me his theory that Yankee fans who grow up in New England are losers in life, people who have such a deep-seeded insecurities that they need to attach themselves to perennial winners. It made sense. Now I can't tell you whether or not the Yankee fan in question, the owner of the damned glass, is from New York or not; however, in the words of "The Dude" Jeff Lebowski, his "unchecked aggression" will not stand, especially so close to Opening Day.
Before Yankee fans get their panties in a bunch, I do understand that the Red Sox have engaged in a vicious game of roll reversal this season and are now, behind super-creep John Henry and the gang in the front office, attempting to buy their own rings.
Hell, I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this anymore. Let's call it my post-modern post.
Roger drank his beer and ordered another one, and I drank mine and ordered another one. The damned Yankee glass still exists at the watering hole, and I've made it my raison d'etre (Is it sexy when I speak French?) to somehow break it before this season expires. Beckett and The Sox have sucked ass this spring, and I shaved a mustache.
Hell yes. It's baseball season. Is it time to have your oil changed?