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Road Trip to the Evil Empire

This weekend, I’m venturing into enemy territory. I’m going to see a game in Yankee Stadium.

I’ve never before been to The House That George Stuffed Full of Cash, so it should be an interesting experience. A few years ago, I decided to embark on a quest to see a game in each of the baseball stadia around the country. At that point, I’d been to exactly five.

“Three hours in the hot July sun, and you wouldn’t know where the ketchup ended and the sunburn began. Not pretty.”

Today, I’ve been to exactly six. Yankee Stadium will make seven. And two of the stadiums I’ve been to have been demolished, and replaced with parks I haven’t seen. As a ‘quest’, my MLB tour isn’t off to a great start. It’s more of a ‘long-term’ goal, at this point.

(I have problems in general with meeting long-term goals. The grand plans I had when I was much younger — ‘become a fireman’, ‘move to Mars’, ‘see Emma Samms naked’ — never worked out, either. Maybe I’ve got ADD.)

Still, it’ll be exciting to see another baseball park — even if it’s in the land of ARod and the Overpriced Middle Relief Pitchers. As a Red Sox fan, I feel obligated to do something to show my allegiance while I’m among the Bronx fans. Some possibilities I’m mulling:

Wear a Red Sox hat

This would clearly mark me as a Bostonian, sure. But hats are easily dropped, knocked off, lost, and generally misplaceable. Do I really want to give some trash-talking New Yahkah the satisfaction of smacking the Boston off my forehead? Not especially.

I suppose I could wear a pair of those sweatshorts with a big Boston ‘B’ on the butt. Except:

A) I’m not a woman,

2) we’ll be sitting in cramped seats, so if a wedgie develops, I’d be displaying a big red ‘E’ for all to see, and

iii) some jackass might still try to smack the Boston off my ass, and I’m not at all interested in being spanked by some bozo from the Bronx. Thanks just the same.

Paint a ‘B’ on my chest and go shirtless

‘Boston-smacking’ aside, this option has several other drawbacks. First, I don’t have any paint lying around handy. Maybe there’s enough ketchup in the fridge to make it work, but I’m not going there. How the hell would I explain that to the missus, next time she needs condiments for her hot dog?

Also, ‘me, topless’ is really never a good idea. Besides the truly unfortunate aesthetics of such a spectacle, it’s been a few weeks since our vacation to Meh-hi-co, so my torso’s reverted to its natural pasty white hue. Three hours in the hot July sun, and you wouldn’t know where the ketchup ended and the sunburn began. Not pretty.

Chant ‘Yankees Suck!’ at random times during the game

This is one of the more popular pastimes in Fenway Park, to be sure. We chant it when we play the Yankees. We chant it when we play the Royals. We chant it during summer concerts, when no baseball’s going on at all. I imagine the grounds crew chants it in the middle of February, as they’re laying new sod and painting the Green Monster. I hear they’re thinking of making it the state motto.

Of course, the advantage of proclaiming the suckage of the Yanks in Fenway is that there are approxitudely thirty thousand Sox fans in attendance, and only a few dozen or so Yankee apologists around. In the Bronx, the numbers are reversed, more or less — and the Bronx is a much rougher area. A lot of those guys carry brass knuckles and crowbars, I hear. Probably best not to piss off every one of them within earshot at once.

Graffiti ‘RED SOX R00LZ!!!!’ on the bathroom wall in the stadium

What do I look like, a fourteen-year-old? I just turned thirty-six; I’m not even allowed to use ‘l33t-speak’ any more. D00d, be serious.

Sit quietly, drink my beer, cross my fingers and whisper, ‘lose, lose, lose, lose, lose’ through the whole game

Now we’re talking. It’s not disruptive, it won’t get my ass kicked, my head slapped, or my nipples burnt, and it plays right into that pesky borderline OCD of mine. Not to mention there’s alcohol involved — what’s not to like? This is going to be a good game, after all. Just so long as I wash the Yankee cooties off, as soon as we leave the stadium. Can’t be bringing those back to Boston; they’d never let me back into Fenway again.