Not long ago now, I was in Ohio yelling about the Yankees. In my hand there was an Italian margarita. The teenaged bartender had mint green nail polish and no answer when asked what this drink contained. I’d been in a greasy, nervous spring slide, an in-between place I lack the constitution to inhabit, watching faceless day games on illegal streams and cracking beers at three, moving in with my girlfriend and worrying all the while, as I carried boxes and dragged my Wayfair mattress to the curb, that I had no money and I’d better not. All this to say I was a little touchy. All this to say I was one hundred thousand pushpins Lego-stacked inside a balloon. But somewhere in there Clayton Kershaw threw seven perfect innings, sanctify everything for an hour, two. And then, on this day in the Midwest, I received good news. A new job, better than the last one. An exciting job, even, if I let myself think so, which I did then, slightly, and do still, though it’s a sentiment I generally avoid, sneering unbecomingly at just the whiff of careerism. I had a happy phone call while at the rental car place in Cleveland and the Circle K Diet Cokes we bought after felt like a celebration. There would be a little gathering that evening. I only did two buttons on my shirt.
Another great piece, Tess, thanks! At Giants games, fans yell Dodgers suck! at every. single. game. It’s so inane. And demonstrably false. And as you say divine.
Another great piece, Tess, thanks! At Giants games, fans yell Dodgers suck! at every. single. game. It’s so inane. And demonstrably false. And as you say divine.