"Now Pitching for the Red Sox, Bitchy Whineypants"*
Baseball permeates my life. Last night I had promised Stephen that it would be a baseball-free evening, considering I had forced him to watch every last pitch of the Yankees series last weekend.
So we went to Uno's, had some dinner, got some ice cream at Sully's, drove around, met Andy and Elizabeth for coffee at the Club Diner, and talked baseball almost the entire time.
The cutest thing about Stephen right now is how much he loves Manolito. He laughs helplessly whenever he sees Manny take the plate, and guffaws whenever Manny hits a dinger over the wall, looks toward the pitcher as if to say, "Ey, mang, how's it feel to be my beetch?" and jogs around the bases.
But since this season began, Steve's gotten more and more interested. Last weekend before the Friday night game of the Yankees series, he seemed pretty disappointed that we weren't going to have our usual night on the town (insert eyeroll here). But by the time we got to about the third or fourth inning of the game, when we were going to get subs Steve said quietly, "But...the game's on."
Yesterday, despite our plans for a baseball-free night, he reached into his overnight bag and brought out a little Red Sox collector's edition magazine he'd picked up at work. I thanked him profusely for the gift, and he corrected me: "I thought we could share it," he said.
Uh oh. Another one bites the dust.
Finally, last night at Uno's he shocked me utterly by saying, "I can't wait till Nomar comes back."
And that's the ballgame for Steve.
Meanwhile, as we were walking into the diner last night, we spotted a sign in the doorway that said:
Please leave your
Yankee paraphernalia at the door.
Then, this afternoon, since it was a balmy afternoon, we decided to get some exercise for once in our fat little lives and walked down to Wal-Mart to run an errand. I wore my quite comfortable Red Sox T-shirt that has GARCIAPARRA 5 on the back. As we walked down a winding road on our way to the shopping center, a little red Mazda slowed down on the other side of the street, and a guy yelled out of the backseat, "Red Sox SUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!!! FUCK YOU!!!!!"
Turning to Steve, I said calmly, "Wow. It must be real tough to be a Yankees fan right now."
On the return trip, another car coming up from behind us slowed down, and the driver yelled out, "NOOOOOOOOOOMAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
The Doppler effect as he drove by made it even funnier.
It's amazing. I don't remember the last time perfect strangers hollered out of car windows at me. And even more astonishing is the fact that none of their comments had to do with my size (as would be par for the course for those inclined to yell at passerby out a car window)--but to do with personal opinions on the team whose name was emblazoned across my chest.
*Title refers to Pedro Martinez, and was a comment made by the always-clever Andy. He adds, "He's 3 and 1 this year and sleeps with a nightlight." As for the whole Pedro situation, wiser words have already been spoken on the subject today.