Wednesday, June 28, 2006
down by the banks of the river charles
“Send your complaints to Mr. W. Randolph, care of The New York Metropolitans Baseball Team, 123-01 Roosevelt Avenue, Flushing, NY 11368!” he mumbled, as he stalked from the couch to the computer, so he could seek the company of other curmudgeons over on the internet.
(And yes. He knows the address, down to the zip code, by heart.)
When we first started dating I was largely immune to this. I was not with him when he was watching or listening to games for the most part, and even I was in the car while we were driving somewhere, the response was either muted, or I just didn’t get what was going on.
Now that I have the sickness, I am no longer spared. Or maybe I just understand what, precisely, he is upset with.
“Let’s hit another home run at the top of the 9th inning with no runners on base,” he’ll yell at José Valentin. Then he’ll scurry over to his message board and post there, where others are reacting much like him - except over the internet.
These moods used to disconcert me - what did I DO? - but now I not only don’t pay it any mind, I don’t even care. I will cheerfully have conversations with everyone else around me, play with the cat, take phone calls from friends (most of whom are condescending as fuck over ‘this baseball thing’ - but that’s a subject for another post).
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I want to go see the Cyclones tomorrow night so we can see Cliff play. I think I will make TBF go and I will meet him there later. I want Nathan’s and salt air and to leave work at some time before 8:30pm.
I have decided that I am going to start a collection of stuffed versions of all the major league mascots. I have a Mariner Moose around here somewhere. Unfortunately, all the stuffed Mr. Met dolls look like ass.
We’re still hoping for a drop so we can attend a game at the House of Pain over the weekend.
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