Saturday, June 09, 2007

KICK OUT THE JAMS.

Ah, Friday night. A night where I have the couch to myself, the cat on my lap, TBF in section 116 of Comerica Park with his father and uncle, and THE METS WINNING! I have to confess that I still hold my breath, to a certain extent, every time Sosa is pitching. Why? I don’t know. Maybe because I’m waiting for the magic to wear off or the Real Jorge Sosa to show up or I don’t know what. His performances certainly don’t rate me watching the game from between my fingers, but it just feels too good to be true sometimes.

Today was the big Girls’ Day Out at ESPN Zone. I met Coop and Zoe in Times Square and squeezed our way inside between the hordes of tourists and hordes of Yankees fans preening because they were winning against the Pirates.
Coop shook her head. “What-ever.” I didn’t laugh because that was exactly my reaction when I arrived.

“Where is the Mets game?” Zoe asked, when we got to the bar, in the brief wait before our table was ready.
The bartender points at a small screen.
“Why can’t you put it on the big screen?”
“We will, once the Yankees are over.”
“But the Yankees have two screens, the horse race has one.”
“That screen’s in a different room.”
We all try pouting. It does not work.
Luckily, we were at our table and the Mets were ensconced on the big screen before the first inning was over, or there might have been a mutiny.

[More of our adventures, after the jump.]

‘FRONT ROW OF 112. TO FOUL SIDE OF RF FOUL POLE” is the txt from TBF. Mentally, I flip him off, half-seriously.  I don’t begrudge him the road game and the male bonding, I just begrudge him my chance to see Comerica. (Sorry, honey.) It doesn’t help that he made sure to inform me he’d already had his picture taken with Paws, the Detroit mascot, yesterday. (I look forward to my consolation prize.)

We were pleased that there were other Mets fans, were less pleased that it seemed like every Yankee fan got off the train after the game and walked over, and could have done without the freakin Pirates fans cheering for the Tigers (then again, they were singing along to some guy singing “New York, New York” before the Belmont Stakes. Tourists.) We probably should have taunted them, but after the Mets’ early lead, the luster faded off our bravado. Goddamn Carlos Guillen. I knew he was going to be trouble.

‘HEY OUTFIELD. NO ERRORS TODAY,” I announced to the big screen. I know we amused the Mets fans sitting in the row in front of us, while the table full of Tigers fans behind us were bemused. I know it can’t be odd to have a table full of female baseball fans, can it? Judging by the lack of service we received - and people, we were drinking - they must not get them often at ESPN Zone. Or they get them, and they’re tourists there for the sight of the video screens. Yeah, our service sucked. Inexcusible.

To combat our nerves, I ordered another Mojito. Zoe considered who to text message next. Coop tried to talk us into joining her on a trip to either Chicago in August or to SF for the All-Star Game. Ultimately, we decide that we are eminently witty, amusing and knowlegeable, and decide we’re going to start a podcast. We avoid biting our nails as we leave ducks on the pond AGAIN. Bases loaded! HELLO, OFFENSE?

“DID U SEE ME ON LEDEE’S DOUBLE?” txt from TBF. This time, I make a face at the phone and wave it at the girls. I grumble.
“Who’d thought - Ricky Ledee?!” Coop says.
We raise our glasses to Mr. Ledee.
“Never thought I’d be glad to see Ricky Ledee, but I’d have been glad to see anyone to get rid of David f’in Newhan,” I say.
Zoe reminds us she does not like Lastings Milledge. Coop is pro-Lastings. I am ambivalent. At this point, I would take anyone HEALTHY.

There is lengthy discussion about the following subjects:

• Stupid boys
• Johan Santana
• Stupid boys
• Carlos Zambrano
• Stupid boys
• Ichiro
• Stupid boys
• Akinori Otsuka
• Stupid boys

[Guys, if you ever want a clinic on how to not piss girls off, come and listen to us during a game some time. More information than you could ever hope to receive.]

I was happy when we got two runs back and were now 6-8, and when D. Wright hit that second home run and we were 7-8, I was overjoyed. Coop was still depressed that OP did not have his best stuff. And we were optimistic until the very end, really, we were. To be honest, I was still happy with the 7-8 game. I felt that, at least, we didn’t humiliate ourselves.

I call TBF.
“Hi,” I say.
“WE’RE STILL IN FIRST PLACE,” he says, loudly.
The line goes dead. I pout. I text back. “NOT NICE TO HANG UP.”
The phone rings again.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hang up. I was just dealing with a stupid heckler,” he says.

Don’t worry, I’ll have my revenge. I think I’m going to Chicago with Coop in August. Shh, don’t tell TBF.