Convergence for your athletics (4/14/10)

by Ryland Walker Knight

—Who cares about 1988 anymore?

Game on. The season is under way and I'm not with it yet. There's another season still happening.

by Ryland Walker Knight

So I didn't even start a fantasy baseball team this season. Oh well. There's better ways to waste time on the internet, right? Or, better still: there's good weather in California, good enough to drive me outside -- to play basketball. I'm not especially good (I may even be "bad") but since the start of 2008 it's been a lot of fun shooting and driving and running around with my friends. Some of it, I think, is inspired by the fun-times play of the Golden State Warriors this season. Every game I've watched has been full of awesome feats of athleticism (by Baron, yes, but moreso by Monta Ellis since the new year began). We even went to a game (that dope come-from-behind win over the Lakers) earlier in the season, which was the best thing I did over my winter break, I'd wager. It's going to be hard for any A's games to top that fever-pitch level of enthusiasm. Even with a lot of beer and sunshine. Because, as much as I'd like to be hopeful, I don't see the A's winning more than 70 games this year, if that. They have a pretty decent starting five, it's true, but I'm very suspicious of their line-up, and of Billy Beane. I think we could see today's starter, Rich Harden, gone by the deadline. (Probably more likely: yesterday's starter, Joe Blanton, will get a new uni quicker.) But that's baseball. The A's are rebuilding. One can only hope (as I'm trying) that things will look a lot better down the line. They did pick up a lot of prospects in those two trades, though, so I guess I should trust that guy in charge: he's made a lot of correct decisions. I mean, there was that book about him after all.

But, in the meantime, I'll occupy myself with how the Warriors close out their schedule. There's 8 games left. It seems likely that they can beat Dallas again tonight, and Memphis on Friday, before rolling into Chris Paul's Hornets on Sunday (it's on ABC!), which, in all likelihood, will be another L, or a real test in any event (outcome). If the W-men (pace Shay) can beat Denver, and give Phoenix a good run, they'll be in good shape, I think, to hit the playoffs a second year in a row. And you gotta like their chances more when you remember that Dirk probably won't be back to full health this season and that there's three cake games (Kings, Clippers, Sonics) tossed in there after New Orleans, too. And it's not like any of the three teams has any scheduling advantage down the stretch. It's just a reiteration of that adage: Every game counts. But, hey, I'm buying that marketing slogan: this is where amazing happens. I hope there's some amazing coming.


[Pix, both from ESPN.com: A's fans dozing / Baron getting big. Videos: 1. Official NBA ad / 2. Fan ad.]

Miguel Cabrera is fat now.

2007

2003

Yup. Ozzie Guillen told him so.

Play Ball! Snapshots of Fenway, 4/11/07

by Leile One

It is slated to be monumental. This is the first nighttime home game for the Boston Red Sox this season, and it’s boasting a special historical meeting of two of the biggest superstars in Japanese baseball history, right here in the center of The Bean. Daisuke Matsuzaka (“Dice-K”), recipient of a fabled $100+ million contract with the Sox last offseason, will be pitching to Ichiro Suzuki of the Seattle Mariners…an international superstar match up of epic proportions. The local and national media have not forgotten to make the world aware of the grand significance of the event. Dunkin’ Donuts has erected a gigantic Japanese advertisement in the outfield of the stadium, to indicate the immense significance of the bridge between East and West that is being built with this ballgame. All corporations identified with Boston will capitalize in a similar fashion. I sit cross-legged staring at the muck filled pond down the street from the Prudential Building, a few blocks away from Fenway Park, awaiting first pitch, scheduled for 7:05 EST.

In case you haven’t heard, Boston is a baseball town. It’s the biggest baseball town in America, partly because there isn’t much else going on around here. The Red Sox victory in the 2004 World Series has merely accelerated an already-existent penchant for America’s Pastime that has been around here since Babe Ruth signed that traitorous contract and donned the pinstripes of the New York Yankees, hundreds of years ago. Local loyalty to The Sox reaches comical proportions daily; often one is unsure whether to laugh or whether to puke about it. Well, that’s how it is for an import, at least, like me. I find myself in New England rather accidentally, after about ten years in the San Francisco Bay Area. I guess the whole phenomenon isn’t so crazy for someone who grew up around here.

At any rate, it’s obvious that I don’t have the 200 necessary dollars to make my way into a bleacher seat for tonight’s game. Whatevs: I’m planning to do what I usually do, which is hang out around the streets and bars surrounding Fenway Park and scope the scene, ingest the spectacle. And yes, to watch the game. I have admittedly fallen victim to the hype frenzy surrounding tonight’s showdown, and am interested in seeing how this Japanese face off ends up going down in the annals of baseball. I rise from the ground I am sitting upon and make my way down to Fenway.

Upon arrival, the Japanese media is in full effect. Vans equipped with satellites and television cameras line the block, broadcasting who-knows-what to lord knows what time zone. The local white people are also in full effect, same as it ever was. They are on their way inside, for the most part. The rest of us will play the outsiders, relegated to the outskirts of the ballpark, thousands of miles from, say, the Oakland Coliseum, where a major league baseball game can be watched in person easily for ten bucks. You must plan in advance for tickets to Fenway, way far in advance, or else you must be a business client of some sort of season ticket holder. No matter how hard the Red Sox try and pose as a “blue collar everyman’s team”, the facts remain. Tickets to Fenway are reserved for the elite, while even Yankees Stadium seats can be obtained by us proles for a reasonable price by comparison.

I take a generous slug from the half-pint of V.S.O.P. which I have cleverly smuggled into the area within the lining of my sport coat. It is cold outside, an ancient cold which makes the prospect of a baseball game seem ludicrous. A pile of black snow stands like a statue across the street from Fenway Park’s beloved Green Monster, where a home run ball may very well end up later this evening. A hand-drawn sketch of Dice-K smiles at me from a lamppost: a local freelance artist has posted his renditions of the superstar’s mug around the premises, in an attempt to advertise his drawing skills and generate clientele. Everyone’s got a buck to pull out of this evening’s festivities.

It’s almost game time. Sausage salesmen on the Avenue are beefing up their sales pitches. The smell of the cart-meat is dizzying, relentless in its deliciousness. Expensive, savory scents assault us, the stuff that little boys dream of. Speaking of which, the kids are in abundance this evening. They grip the palms of their fathers, their important fathers with crisp collars and good tickets, on their way to a baseball game that will live in their memories forever. This is a New England rite of passage, the passing on of the Red Sox Virus which guarantees the sickness will live on in the tradition of a whole new generation. Enjoy your ice cream cone, young Whitey…

I step inside the Cask n’ Flagon, the traditional townie bar of the Red Sox Nation. I want to see the initial Ichiro vs. Dice-K match up as much as the next guy. A beer is procured from the bald-head guy at the counter, and I settle in to absorb the first at bat. Whoomp, there it is. Ichiro dribbles a nothing little ball bouncer into the glove of Matsuzaka, who throws him out at first base, no problem. Highly anti-climactic, but that’s okay. We’ve got another 8 and two-thirds innings of baseball ahead of us.

When it comes time for the Red Sox bats to come to the plate, all of a sudden, I become aware of something else. Felix Hernandez is pitching for the Seattle Mariners: he’s perhaps the best pitcher throwing in the game right now whose name isn’t Johan Santana. Why hasn’t more hype been generated around Felix’s involvement in this whole charade? Felix Hernandez, the phenomenal pitcher for the Seattle Mariners who just turned 21 three days ago. He’s a clear-cut candidate for the Cy Young award this year. And his annual salary rings in at a mere $420,000, pennies compared to what the bigass bankroll BoSox paid for Dice-K’s presence in 2007 (around $9 million, not including local business endorsements). And nobody from Boston has even heard of this kid. Their one-track minds revolve strictly within the orbits of Yankees and Red Sox solar systems.

An hour later, Hernandez has pitched six innings of no-hit baseball. He has made obsolete all of the nationwide and local press about the Matsuzaka-versus-Ichiro showdown this evening. And he’s done so humbly, at a salary exponentially smaller than his huge-hype counterparts. He’s a kid from Venezuela, a People’s Republic devoid of the ridiculousness of the American and Japanese media worlds. The Red Sox Hype Machine: unsightly, merciless, a slobbering behemoth whose hunger knows no rational limits of satiation. It stumbles along and makes meaningless any sort of national or worldwide news on the cover of the local daily papers, with oversized portraits of grey-clad pitchers on the mound or batters in the box. The big news always centers upon what the Red Sox did yesterday.

David Ortiz to the plate, with predictable cheers from every Bud Light swallower in the room. “Big Papi gonna hit the ball haahd,” I am assured by the gentleman occupying the bar stool next to mine. Likely he would punch the face of anyone who told him otherwise. Big Papi, spokesperson for the Lobster Sandwich at D’Angelo’s, the local chain equivalent of a Subway or Quizno’s (yes, we also have both of those. But any true-blooded Bostonian goes for the ‘lo’s, brudduh). Papi swings gallantly, with every ounce of strength he could be expected to muster, thwacking a fistful of dead air. He is sent back to the dugout with the bat between his legs. Lobster Sandwich sales remain unaffected at the time of this publication.

The famous Citgo sign watches over Fenway, sees it all. There is a local movement to boycott Citgo, since it is supposedly run by communist Venezuelans. Paradoxically, the Bostonians harbor a special fondness for the Citgo sign; it represents us, for better or for worse. We will never turn off that sign, it stays lit like the torch of liberty, despite a local politician’s suggestion that we unplug the fucker in a show of disapproval for international happenings. Hugo Chavez laughs at the whole spectacle, with glimmering eyes indicating the looming Latin uprising brewing down south, so far south that it might as well be another planet. But the fear remains. We shall boycott Citgo gasoline, but keep its sign illuminated as a Boston landmark. We shall represent Patriotism by all means, in the face of logic and rationality, while being safely blanketed under the guise of “We’re a fucking Blue State, hence liberal.” We are Boston, hear us roar.

I sit at the bar nursing a Sam Adams lager, considering these as well as other things. How am I going to write a story about this evening? I will attempt to avoid mentioning the other aspects of Boston which provide so much daily annoyance. I will intentionally omit details of the horrifically stagnant local music scene. I’ll be polite to neglect the discussion of how the city shuts down at 2am, without diner or coffee shop to wet the late night appetite of those of us who like to roam the wee hours from time to time. I won’t even bring up the weak ass clam chowder, the staple food of the legendary New England kingdom. Yeah, I said it – I for one prefer a sourdough breadbowl of thick wonderfulness from San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf, when it comes to that. The stuff around here is watery, flavorless at best. But I’m not planning to bring that up in the piece. For this is a story of baseball…

Final score: 3 to zero, Seattle Mariners. But tomorrow is always another day in the Red Sox Nation, the sun growing warmer as summer approaches. The mania will rise as the thermometers redden, and the city grows more and more unbearable as the days go by. Loud working class town folk, quiet white collar yuppies…both increase their stranglehold on the city in subtle ways. The Birthplace of America stands as the representative of everything that sucks about it. And the game goes on, rest assured…

[If you are interested in actual funny local journalism about the Dice-K phenomenon, check out this gem from The Boston Phoenix, a respectable free weekly newspaper which I tend to utilize.]

The pillow's drowning: Oh yes, we're drooling.

by Ryland Walker Knight

The American League Championship Series begins Tuesday night in Oakland. Yes, the A's came to play in the Divisional Series and swept the Twins. They played "mistake-free baseball" according to the Twins' catcher Joe Mauer, while the Twins made mistake after mistake. For me, it was a joy. I wear my hat with pride in these Seattle streets. I've been attracting a lot of attention, some distasteful but mostly congradulatory. Even from a devoted--and drunk--Minesota native who told me, "That Torii Hunter sure lost the game for them."

That much is true. We won with determination. The Twins fell apart. A perfect sweep never trailing at any point in the series.

But it's back to worrying because those Tigers out of Detroit are no baby cubs: they have fangs and claws and ferocity. The Yankees--and all the East Coast biased media--underestimated them and they paid the price. Their pitching staff reverted to its early season dominance and their offense never gave up, even in their Game One loss, always fighting, applying pressure. There's no doubt their fearless attitude is going to help a soaring confidence level.

But the A's are pretty happy right now, too. I just hope they aren't complacent. And from what I've read, that's not the case. Frank Thomas keeps grounding the kids after big wins and reminding them, "There's still more games, more series we got to win." The champagne's great but you gotta remember the big picture: The World Series.



Manager Ken Macha rarely sleeps a full night. He's up early planning, working hard to prepare. His staff works hard too and this commitment has shone through his players this year. The team was banged up the entire season but always found ways to win. They got hot like always in the second half and showed they deserved to win the AL West. Frank Thomas has said this is the first club he's been a part of in 17 big league years that never had a squabble or prima donna moment--just a bunch of guys who love to play the game right. And that's what we fans have to count on: that diligence to play mistake-free, hard-nosed baseball until the final out. Because the Detroit Tigers have the same philosophy. There won't be an inch to budge.

But I can't stop grinning thinking about this match up. It's a pretty evenly matched series with a slight edge going to the Tigers for shutting down what, on paper, seemed like the best lineup to ever see the limelight in the postseason. But I think with home field advantage and an energized, devoted club eager to keep proving themselves the A's can win it in six. However, I'm sure there's a Tigers fan writing this same blog right now talking all about their monumental triumph. Should be fun. With fingers crossed and hat snug I wait patiently. Go A's!

Still drooling.

by Ryland Walker Knight

After a two-year hiatus (including a late-season stumble last year), the Oakland Athletics have won the AL West and are competing in the playoffs. I was pretty heartbroken following their last few flame outs in the postseason but my expectations were pretty high going into those series. This year I'm a little more realistic. And skeptical. The end of the season was a little distressing, to be honest.

Last week I attended the series opener against the Mariners here in Seattle. All they had to do was win and the A's would clinch their AL West title. And things started out great with a home run by Milton Bradley in the top of the first. Estaban Loaiza was even relatively effective. Then, in the 5th inning, with the A's up by six runs (9-3), the Mariners began to batter the A's bullpen. Going into the bottom of the 9th, the A's still lead by three but that apparently wasn't enough for the usually lights-out Oakland closer (and reigning Rookie of the Year) Huston Street. The Mariners tied the score and wound up winning the game. I was flabergasted, speechless as we exited.

The A's went on to win the series and clinch their pennant but their final series against the Angels was yet more dispiriting. They lost that series playing sloppy only to win the final game of the season. I must admit, my hopes for this playoff run are significantly less than in years previous. Especially drawing the Twins at home for the Division Series.

The Twins have been on a ridiculous tear, playing a Major League best 71-33 since June. They have the best home record in the Majors as well at 54-27. They also have the best pitcher in the game, Johan Santana, and the batting champ, catcher Joe Mauer, plus a serious MVP candidate in firstbaseman Justin Morneau. It's a tall order for a team with its best pitcher (Rich Harden) still recovering, its marquee player (Eric Chavez) enduring a trying year beset by injuries and a mediocre bullpen struggling down the stretch.

What the A's do have going for them is their best lineup since 2001, a better starting pitching rotation than the Twins and a lot of veteran excitement. At the top of their lineup, Jason Kendall and Mark Kotsay have never played in the postseasn and are quick to declare their own excitement. Frank Thomas is back on the big stage to prove himself once again after a season's worth of proof he's still dangerous and capable. But good will won't win ballgames. Timely hitting, good pitching and reliable team defense do win ballgames. Luckily, the A's have all three. But so do the Twins.

The one thing the A's have over the Twins is a key mental edge: when cornered, considered the underdog, the Oakland Athletics have routinely prooved they can rise up. Granted, that was always in the regular season, climbing the standings to the top by the end of the schedule. But that's part of that good will factor that won't necessarily push Oakland over the equalizing line.

For now I'm just hoping the A's make it intereting. I'm pretty much conceding game 1 against Santana since he never wastes a pitch and can take his excellent stuff deep into games, handing the ball to Joe Nathan, the best closer in the AL this year. But I think the A's could do some damage against the rest of the Twins' banged up and inconsistent rotation. But let's not forget Barry Zito is 2-1 with a 2.74 ERA in the postseason. If he can keep it close, maybe the A's will make a real push to put some pressure on the Twins early in the series. Maybe that way they can break their streak of exiting early and show the Yankees who's boss on the big ALCS stage. Having attended two Oakland wins in New York I know the A's can beat them. But first things first: make the Division Series interesting enough and don't give up. I can't help drooling about a possible win but I'll try wiping my mouth for now.

I drool. I drool so much.

by Ryland Walker Knight

I rarely exercise on a regular basis. A run every once in a while, maybe some frisbee or soccer for a few hours every couple weeks. Basketball is a thing of the past with courts routinely crowded by Asian ballers flashing their Jordans and predictable cross overs; but I don’t wear the right shoes and can’t drive to spare the game my ugly jump shot. More often than not I choose the spectator route. It’s easier to critique, you know?

Baseball is my spectator sport of choice: I can’t hit to save my life but I love watching people who can. (I’d like to say soccer but that would be a lie brought on by World Cup fever.) And it’s obvious my affinity for America’s Pastime: it’s got the best stats. Stats to drool over. Stats you can dream about. Stats to surf the internet “researching”. Stats you can love? fantasize about? lust after? If you own a fantasy baseball team the answer is undoubtedly yes.

My favorite stats are always frowned upon by my fellow fantasy friends. For a couple years I weaseled Grounded Into Double Plays (as in induced by the pitcher) into the rotisserie to quite a heft backlash. I thought Shutouts were a good pitching stat—slightly rare but frequent enough to matter—but that proved misguided and unpopular. Most recent it’s been Hit by Pitch (as in the pitcher hits the batter). Now, HBP wasn’t my first choice, but I think it’s a great stat: perfectly arbitrary and ridiculous yet easily a winnable category. Especially if it were switched to a positive. Imagine owning Pedro when he was on the Red Sox from 01998-02002, when he ruled by change up and intimidation. I think he hit somebody just for fun at least once every few games to keep the opposition on their toes, as it were.

There are some stats I’d love to have but Yahoo won’t let me. Batting Average Against (which I’ll substitute Total Bases Allowed for next year instead of HBP) is the best—a true sign of a pitcher’s dominance. Every year there’s a pitcher who wins something like 16 or 18 games but has a WHIP (Walks + Hits over Innings Pitched) close to 1.50. Contrast that to Johan Santana’s Cy Young season: he won 20 games with a WHIP of 0.92 while striking out 265 batters. That’s worthy of a lot of personal quality times over hours, days, months, an entire season.

But you don’t want to get carried away with the stats. You don’t want to root for Jared Weaver to win all his starts against the A’s down the stretch just so you can gain some points, do you? Fuck that. Loyalty must be retained, even if the only stat on the A’s roster you can get hot for is Barry Zito’s BAA: something you may not have next year thanks to free agency inflation and a sheep’s call of stars heading to New York. And with Rich Harden refusing to prove the hype right with injury after injury, the bodacious, curvaceous, lascivious stats we’re promsed every year keep running away and hiding. We have to draft players our allegiances tell us to hate. A-Rod’s not even having a banner year like usual. Soriano strikes out a billion times a year, almost as often as Adam Dunn, who, in turn, hasn’t been hitting the dingers like usual. Even Big Papi has the stigma of playing for the fucking Red Sox.

The only solace is that Barry Bonds is no longer a fantasy stud. His age has caught up now that baseball has caught on to his juice box frenzy. He’s well below his career average, his HR totals are significantly mediocre, he’s even striking out more often than ever in recent memory. He still walks a ton—leads the league in Intentional Base on Balls—but that’s about the only stat he’s giving any owners any dreams about. But they’re the nostalgia-tinged kind. The kind where you stay up late to think about that big meaty head hardly smiling as he swats home run 600. The kind where you wish you had taken him in the third round in 02001 only to kick yourself forever by choosing Tim Hudson because of your cross-bay rivalry. The kind you want to wake up from, really. Right, that kind is the kind we call nightmare. And it’s the kind he’s living now, all balky knees and excess muscle mass. Everything uneasy from the field to the locker room to the house of law where former best friends tell stories of roid rage. And ex mistresses say he threw phones at their heads. He’ll be lucky to finish the season without going to jail at the rate things are going with all this indictment whirlwind on ESPN—

Pardon the interruption but, don’t you own Bonds this year?

Right. Ahem. Well, maybe, I dunno, he could catch fire, turn—

Wait: I picked up Liriano off waivers in May. With stats like that, I might could drool my way to the top. But that’s a lot of drool. And I've only got so much time to waste on the internet.

I'd rather eat an avocado.

by Ryland Walker Knight

I can count the number of fist fights I've found myself a part of on one open hand. I don't like pain and try to avoid it; yet I can deal if it slaps me, pins me, kicks me. I am meek and I imagine strangers can read my introversion when I squint and bite my lips as I zig zag across the sidewalk. I have love to give and offer more forgiveness than I should, probably: its just my optimistic philosophy of humanity's capability for greatness, for compassion, for peace.

With all that I took my seat in the bleachers at Yankee Stadium next to Nathan, a friend from high school, ready to cheer our hometown Oakland Athletics. I expected to be yelled at when we stood up to clap but I never expected the violence of that Sunday. We had attended the finale of the A's previous visit to the Bronx and were called "Homos!" and "Fags!" and "Cock Suckers!" but that was all. It was less crowded in May on Mother's Day--it was overcast & windy--and there were five or six large Mexican A's fans sitting in our section, which I will admit made me feel safer.

Yet in June, a week from Father's Day, the sky was blue, the temperature was comfy and the Bleacher Creatures were boiling over after two losses to open the series. Their venom was immediate and palpable. If they still served alcohol out in the cheap seats we would have been tormented even more, I am positive. But their policy is lenient, apparently, and some drunken guests are let through the turnstiles despite slurred speech and bowed legs. So after two carefree innings with a few expected taunts, things turned ugly.

He came up the stairs with a friend in tow. His shirt was black with red-orange letters telling everybody, "I KNOW JACK". At first I thought it was a cheeky reference to that computer game we all knew and loved in middle school but when he turned to ask his friend a question I saw the back was silk screened with the infamous Jack Daniels label. Oh. They entered the row behind us and asked a fat man what row J was. The fat man said, "That row, with the A's fans." Great. I could feel the evil smile before I saw it.

The A's were up to bat in the top of the third. After an infield pop up and a lazy fly to right, Nick Swisher stepped to the plate with the Yankees ahead 2-1. Swisher is a Super Sophomore, far outplaying any pundit's predictions: as of this writing he ranks in the top ten of Runs, Home Runs, Slugging Percentage and OPS (On Base Percentage Plus Slugging Percentage). He is a fan favorite not only because of his on-field skills but his place in Oakland Athletics history as a key player in the "Moneyball" draft, as profiled in Michael Lewis' bestseller of the same name. He is the future of the Athletics franchise. And in his second at bat of this game, he hit an inside the park home run. The whole stadium was standing, mostly sighing, shoulders slumped, groaning. Except me and Nathan, all four of our arms raised, exchanging high fives, yelling "Oh Yeah!"

From behind: "Sit down, faggots!" I smiled over my shoulder.

Then from my left: "You root for the fucking A's?" It was him, He Who Knows Jack. Now I could smell his familiarity with Mr Daniels as he stepped closer.

"Yeah, so? I was born there."

"Well you can go the fuck back there, kid." He was at the least three inches taller and carried thirty to forty pounds of gym-toned or jobsite-strong muscle more than me. He held an empty Gatorade bottle.

"Whatever, dude."

He hit me with the plastic bottle not once but twice, three, four times in rapid succession on the arm. "Go back, go back, go back, fucking faggot."

"What the fuck is your problem?"

"You, gay boy. You're in my bleachers rooting for the wrong team." He had maybe a year or two (three tops) on me. His face was flushing fast, the red spreading from his nose across his cheeks and forehead, now brighter than his carrot colored hair. His buddy, decked out in grey jersey and blue NY hat was laughing, "HaHA-tell him, boy."

"Are you serious?"

"I will seriously fuck you up."

I turned away. I remembered Nathan was there next to me when he asked me, "You alright? You want to move?" Then to make me smile, "These guys sure have a fascination with homosexuality." I shook my head, thinking it couldn't last much longer. I told him if it got too horrible I'd move with him.

"You hear me?" He was talking at me again, then to his friend. "This fag wont even respond." He hit me on the arm again. I turned to face him, face twisted in confusion, anger, futility. He continued: "You don't understand, asshole. I'll put my elbow through your glasses." My face showed disgust. "You dont get it, dick licker. I am so willing to get thrown out just to fuck you up."

"Okay. Clearly you could." I lifted my hands, almost inviting, and his face blanched. His eyes focused, somehow, and then the anger came again, the red flushing across his face with a fierce speed. His buddy asked him what I said and he replied with gibberish; he couldnt comprehend my retort. For about ten seconds I felt empowered and turned to the field again. At this point the A's had ended the inning after Swisher's amazing feat, the Yankees had come up and gone down three in a row and now the A's had a man on first (Eric Chavez, the $66million third base star). Jay Payton hit the next pitch into deep center and we all stood up again. It flew over Johnny Damon's head and Payton made it to second with a double, Chavez on third. They would go on to score, but first:

"I fucking dare you to talk shit."

I decided I wouldnt respond to anything. I may be called a pussy but I wasn't going to let him feed off my anger, I wasn't going to afford him an opportunity to put his elbow through my glasses--I can't afford new ones right now, I need to save my money. Then the peanuts started hitting my back.

It continued. The A's took the lead that inning, 4-2, and more crap hit us from behind. My neighbor rushed over to lean down in front of us and punch the air; two blows landed without much pain on my upper lip; I tasted a little blood briefly but it didn't hurt, it was more shocking; and after, while I put pressure on my face, he kept assuring me he would fuck me up outside. He started throwing cardboard cup holders. Innings passed, the Yankees took the lead again for half an inning and our biggest fan thought he should show me he could eat nachos by standing on the bench in front of us, kneeling down to chew in our faces. I had the idea to shove him back on his ass into the people below but knew that meant I'd have to throw down for real and probably buy new glasses, so I bit my tongue and lips some more, kept my hands up as a brace and shook my head. When the A's tied it during the next half inning he hit me some more, this time with his fists, but kept it to my left bicep. Nathan asked me if I wanted to move but my pride made me say, No, not really, I'd rather leave the stadium than give him the pleasure of moving seats. It was a test of wills at this point and I was determined to outlast him, regardless how nervous and degraded I felt. During the tied innings he went to get more snacks and I had tomatoes thrown at me (Im pretty sure the stain will come out) on top of the peanuts. But in the bottom of the 6^th, during a counsel on the mound after one of Barry Zito's 7 walks, we were rescued.

I sat with both feet up, hugging my knees, rocking a bit and tearing away my dead dry lip skin with my teeth. I did my best to ignore my bladder begging to be voided. A young guy, our age, sat down next to me and said, "Hey guys. I just wanted to apologize for that asshole." I turned in disbelief. Who would do this? Who is this guy? "I want you guys to know not all Yankee fans are like him. He's just sloshed." I had a hard time believing this but I appreciated the gesture. Nathan seemed to appreciate it more and immediately asked a question about the Yankees' pitching staff. The three of us talked baseball with ease and pleasure through the next uneventful inning before I felt comfortable enough to go relieve myself. We were yet more comfortable when A-1 Irish Asshole decided to leave and gave us the thumbs up crossing in front of us. But we kept our composure and didn't yell for joy when Dan Johnson hit his second home run of the game to put the A's up for good in the top of the 8^th.

Our new buddy Kevin (I caught his friend calling him by name) was a little more reserved for the rest of the game but he lit up when the Yankees' closer, Mariano Rivera, came in to Metallica's "Enter Sandman"--his favorite thing ever at a Yankee game. The game fell into its expected rhythm of bullpen dominance after Robinson Cano stole second base the next inning and neither team had another baserunner. Huston Street retired the side in the bottom of the ninth and the A's won. I shook Kevin's hand as he left and we smiled. I said, "Thank you," and he nodded with a slow blink. Nathan shook Kevin's hand. Kevin's friends said, "Good game, boys, take it easy," and I felt reassured that there is good in the world. But my body was still knotted nerves.

We filed out with the rest of the crowd and I scanned for the Jack Daniels t-shirt against my will. My eyes flitted everywhere and I gravitated towards an Indian 20-something wearing a brilliant green and gold Eric Chavez jersey with Nathan in tow. Nathan told me about the tomato stains and picked one off my collar.

Somebody yelled "Terrorist Faggots!" The Chavez fan laughed and shook his head. I noticed he and his friend were walking with two stunning young white ladies and thought, Good for them.

Of course the train was packed and smelly, yet subdued--whipped, I thought. Nathan said, "Weird day." I nodded and smiled and shook my head to say, "What can you do?" before I said out loud, "Well, they won. Now I can go drink a cold beer in a hot shower and curl in a cocoon." I think he only heard the words shower and cocoon. He laughed, "Well I'm glad you came." We were silent for a stop and then Nathan said again, "That's the last time you have to endure that this season."

"Thank God." We shook hands awkwardly in the cramped space of the train before he departed at 125^th Street. I thought about the beer & shower idea and decided against it. I would get off at 86^th Street and go see my girlfriend at work. She might help me loosen the knots in my chest.

The station was packed with the Puerto Rican Day Parade crowd. I saw the friend of the Chavez fan and he saw my tomato stains. "They can be rough. But I guess you got it worse." We talked about the Bay Area. We laughed at the ignorance of the Bleacher Creatures. We parted on Lexington: he went south as I turned north.

My girlfriend listened to me complain while I drank bottled water. She hugged me once, out of view of her coworkers. She let me vent most of the ride home. She vented about a co-worker, a Staten Island native, who has never left New York and poses far too often behind claims like, "I'm never going to watch Requiem for a Dream because so many people like it." I said that's the shit that annoys me--that typical New Yorker pride. After a block of silence I said, "Fucking deadly sin," and we smirked.

When we stepped inside the stuffy apartment I started to strip and said, "Maybe I'll take a shower to help me calm down." My limbs were still a little shaky.

"You want a cigarette?"

"That never worked for me. Once, in high school, after a fight with my dad--I think--I stole one from Gail and smoked it in the park behind our house. It just tasted gross so I never did it again. Yeah, except for when I'm plastered and dont know any better." I dropped my underwear on the toilet. "But anyways, I'd rather eat an avocado." Then I closed the door and got in the shower.