Take Me Out of the Ball Game

I hate to be one of those guys who always looks to the past as a time more worthy than the present, but the general behavior of the average fan at a professional sporting event leaves something to be desired. At last nights Red Sox - Yankee game, a young man directly in front of me labeled me and my loved ones contemptible people.

Sitting with my well healed brother, his lovely wife and my beautiful bride, the rabid Red Sox fanatic thought it incredulous that we, and other AARP types, didn't vociferously participate in a "Yankees suck! Yankees suck!" cheer. When he and his Budweiser induced spokesman couldn't get us to sing a long, he yelled out, "C'mon you fuckers!" His words, not mine. I think he was a plant from a fascist group known as Red Sox Nation.

I attended my first game at Fenway Park in 1969; I was an impressionable 12 years old. When I got home I picked up a whiffle ball bat and did my best imitation of Carl Yastrzemski. I now hesitate to bring my grandson Nathaniel to the stadium for fear that he'll go home and do his best impression of Andrew Dice Clay. There's always somebody out there trying to wreck my good time, those evil doers! My words, not theirs.

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