It’s Opening Day at Yankee Stadium. Yer thinkin’, “Dietsch! I never knew you to care about baseball! What gives?”
Well, I don’t give a shit, really. But day games at Yankee always start at like 1:00 or something, and they end a little after 4. My old job let out at 4:15, dumping me into the Yankee Stadium subway stations at the same goddamn time as 57,000 motherfuckers.
Every day game carried the same hope–extra innings, extra innings, extra innings.
Even now, slacking at the desk of the new job, posting to a blog that was blocked at the old job, I’m feeling some of the old apoplexy as I remember the clogs of pinstriped morons blocking mezzanines, turnstiles, and platforms. Ah, how fun it is to have a drunk from Long Island rocking left and right in the seat beside you, calming himself only upon feeling your elbow in his ribs.
Watching dudes throwing up or starting fights–so classy. Hearing the fans loudly recap the same goddamn game they all just watched. Fun!
How fondly I remember the day some dingbat chick and her friends were goofing around on the platform. She stepped backward directly into my path while I was walking to the end of the platform–since of course the fans all thronged the middle section. I had a wall to the left of me, a crowd to the right, fifty people on my heels, and suddenly a feathered-hair bimbo directly in front of me. What do you do? I said, “Excuse me, please,” while I reached up, placed my left hand on the back of her shoulder, and nudged her to the right. She got the hint and apologized.
Happy Opening Day, Yankees. You won your opener, but I hope you finish at the bottom of your division. You’re just one more thing I don’t miss about the old job.