Before I tell another story about going to Yankee Stadium, I have to say that I hate the Yankees. But I wanted to see the new palace the Steinbrenner clan tricked the city into spending $400 trillion to build. So, up to the Bronx I went. Oh, and they were playing the Phillies, who I also hate. But interleague is interleague and I could hate on both teams equally.
Yeah, the stadium is pretty fucking solid. I’d say it’s probably one of the best places in Major League Baseball to go watch some rich assholes eat babies, poor people puke on themselves, or the Yanks play a game against some other douche team from the AL. My two favorite features are the padded seats and the garlic fries. And in some ironic joke, they put a fucking fruit stand in there. “I’ll take two dogs, chicken fingers, nachos, four Buds… oh and two Red Delicious apples please.” Yeah right.
And now let’s get to the Macguffin of my story. I live by one rule when attending a professional baseball game, “Respect The Pitch.” It’s very simple, if the pitcher is going to throw a pitch, you keep you fat ass in your God damn seat. That’s it.
If they’re singing God Bless America, or some little 19-year-old piece of ass is throwing out free t-shirts, or Jeter and A-Rod are doing lines of coke in the dugout during a commercial break, do whatever the fuck you want. Stand up and cheer like you just don’t care. Pull out your dick. Find a Phillies fan and punch him/her right in the cocksucker. I don’t give a shit! BUT, if the pitcher is in his windup you should NEVER be cluttering the field of vision of my gorgeous-baby-ocean-sky-blue-Arian-20-20-laser-surgery-vision-mother-fucking eyes! (They’re really quite nice, women get lost in them.) That’s all I ask, “Respect The Pitch.”
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those a-holes with a radio headset filling out a scorecard during the game. Daddy likes to drink and then daddy usually breaks the seal around the third inning. So, including six piss breaks, beer and food runs, I’m outta my seat a lot. But I would NEVER block anybody’s view of the game! That’s because every pitch thrown in a baseball game has the potential to be the best play ever, or at the very least a fucking ‘web gem’ on douche-center that night. 99% of the time it’s a ball or a foul tip, but just do me a fucking favor and “RESPECT THE MOTHER FUCKING PITCH.”
Oddly enough, somebody at this particular Yankees game wasn’t following my ONE rule. A curly haired woman wearing a Jeter jersey (go figure.) and her “date” decided to get up and push through the entire aisle in front of me and during a double fucking play! I didn’t get to see it.
As the asshole couple passed up the stairs, you’ll never guess what I did. I fucking let them have it. “Hey, is everything OK?” I yell. “We all just missed a double play! Is there an emergency at home? Do you have to leave? Or are you just so disrespectful to the people around you that you don’t care if anybody else gets to see the game?”
I wish had had a picture of the look on this broad’s face. Completely and utterly confused as to why I’d be yelling at her. Her only retort was, “why don’t you shut up?” “Respect the pitch,” I yelled back.
About ten minutes later, they came back… during a God damn pitch. Lumbering down the aisle, making their whole row get up, I let them have it again! Jeter’s No. 1 fan was completely dumbfounded. She honestly thought I was being a dick to her for no reason. Her husband/gay friend/dick-of-the-month is just shrugging his shoulders, almost as if to say “sorry she’s one of those self-centered bitches that thinks the world revolves around her.” Most of the people in front of me acknowledged my rightness. And that was the end of that.
Maybe five minutes later, the 21-year-old “lady” seated behind me taps me on the shoulder.
“Why did you yell at those people?” she asks.
“They didn’t respect the pitch and I missed a double play,” I say.
The look that crossed her face was extremely similar to the poop smelling face the other broad had. I was then subjected to the worst verbal beat down I have ever been dealt. Worse than the lamest fight on the 100th rated reality show on TV. Princess didn’t appreciate me policing the game and wanted to let me know these were her seats! Or her Daddy’s and he wasn’t using them tonight.
“You should keep your mouth shut and get out of our seats,” she moaned. “If people in our seats want to get up and enjoy the park, then let them.”
“Yes, but I’m trying to enjoy the game, which is why we’re all here.”
“No,” she cried like a total bitch. “Get out of our seats!”
“Excuse me,” I ask.
And then she let out a quick, “buh-bye.”
“What?”
“Get out of our seats, buh-bye!”
I had nothing. The “buh-byes” kept coming. By the time she said it for the fourth time she was holding up her hand like a little puppet and the movement of her hand matched the “buy-bye.” The sixth one just smacked me in the face and I sat there with my mouth open looking like a fat goober. I had been bested by a 21-year-old over privileged gash. I turned back to face the game in defeat, thinking that I just got beaten by “buy-bye.”
Funny thing, if you’re ever arguing with me you should never, under no circumstances give me any ammunition.
A few minutes after the last echoes of “buh-bye” bounced their way out of the outfield, my little friend got a phone call. I tried really fucking hard not to listen in, but her squawking made that impossible. Here’s a quick paraphrase of that phone call… imagine a girl with an awful voice, trying to make it sound sexy;
“Hi Tommy… Are you down at the shore?... I’m coming down tomorrow… I’m at the baseball game… Are you hanging there with Victoria?... Oh no!... Stay away from her!... Oh no, I don’t have a boyfriend, we broke up… a few weeks ago…. Yeah we should totally hang out!... OK Tommy, see you tomorrow…. Stay away from Victoria! Bye Sweetie.”
That conversation went on and on for about ten minutes but that’s the gist of it. About a second after The Buh-Bye Girl hung up, I turned in my seat and said, “I can’t imagine why your boyfriend broke up with you.”
As it turns out, I must have stepped on a very sensitive nerve.
“What!” she said.
“No wonder you don’t have a fucking boyfriend,” I slyly said.
“Fuck you,” she cried. “Get out of my seats!” And then she gestured to spill her beer on me.
“Do it!”
“You’re fat,” she yelled.
“If we’re going with the obvious,” I said. “You have greasy hair and no boyfriend.”
She muttered “fuck you,” as she held her beer over my head.
“I’m willing to bet you’ll be single all year.”
I realized she’s really into the whole repetitive thing, because now “fuck you” was all she was saying.
“You looking forward to getting Tommy’s sloppy seconds tomorrow?”
“Fuck you.”
“Single all year.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’m sure you’ll fuck a lot of dudes, like Tommy, but nobody’s gonna wanna date you.”
“Fuck you.”
“You will be single all year!”
At this point she is in a rage! Her beer is spilling all over, some of it on me, but not a lot. She’s giving me the finger and just singing a chorus of “Fuck You.”
“Do you realize that when guys hate fuck you,” I say. “It’s not just because you’re an asshole?”
“What does that fucking mean?” she cried. She’d lost it at this point and was standing. My friends and her friends were interjecting at this point and I was just smiling. I turned my attention back to the game. The damage had been done.
For the next couple of minutes she lobbed a few words at the back of my head and finally in tears she said to her friend, “I’m going up there for a minute. I’ll be back.” She never came back. I really wanted her to just so I could say, “buh-bye.” But I didn’t get the chance.
There are two morals to this story. The first one is to “RESPECT THE PITCH!” And the second is that you shouldn’t yell at somebody for yelling at somebody. Because I will find a center in you. I will chew it up and leave. Well in this case, I chewed it up and stayed to watch the Phillies womp ass on the Yankees!
Well, if you're not a 12-year-old boy, or me you probably think of a turkey or if you saw it on a menu at Wawa, a turkey sandwich. (Wawa incidentally is the best convenience store chain in the country. But that's a whole blog in and of itself. I hate when people say "in and of itself!")
