Why must my beloved Shea Stadium be strategically infested with morons? And can they remain inside the building once the demolition commences?
My morons from Thursday night stay in the game the way morons do: by drinking and cursing and not shutting nor toning down their yaps for a solitary second. There is nothing wrong per se with drinking or cursing or saying things. But it’s just a bad combination when it’s all stirred together for nine innings when I’m trying to enjoy the Mets beating the Braves.
Excessive drinking never helps matters. One beer, two beers…go ahead. The beverage industry appreciates your patronage and it’s legal. Taken in moderation, alcohol beverage intake has been shown to have beneficial health effects. Maybe you’ve heard of the French Paradox. It suggests drinking red wine can be a heart smart activity. But what of the Shea Paradox, the one in which the more the morons behind me drink, the less I enjoy being at my favorite place in the world?
I found it revealing that my morons (a quartet of them, two laddies, two lassies) told each other stories of how “I was so fucking drunk” over and over and over. Truly every third story for about six innings involved unseemly displays of drunkenness. It seemed to get them thrown out of every venue they’d been permitted in, including — shocker — Shea Stadium. No, not last night, darn it all to heck, but in the past. The most demonstrative of the morons did confess that this one fucking time when these fucking people were fucking mad at him for fucking standing and fucking cheering and they fucking called over a fucking usher who fucking threw him out…well he might have fucking deserved it because he’s pretty fucking sure he fucking wore his fucking Yankee jersey that night and had had like seven fucking beers in the first three fucking innings and he was (his words) pretty fucking obnoxious.
Credit must be given for that much self-awareness, I suppose.
Such behavior is to be expected by kids getting their first taste of hops, barley and freedom, except these were no kids. One of them complained (or fucking complained) that LeBron James is eight years younger than he is. LeBron James is 23, which would make this young man 31. At 31, you shouldn’t be fucking getting thrown out of places with such frequency. Nor should your baseball repartee be limited to, when Nick Evans is at bat, calling out “N-i-i-i-i-ck!” in a “funny” voice six or seven times and laughing hysterically every time.
When I attended Mets-Braves games in the past, I considered the Braves the greatest obstacle to my happiness. After the Mets completed their sweep of Atlanta, I had to rework my rankings regarding nemeses in such a scenario:
1) The morons behind me
2) The Braves, even in their present state
3) The fellow to my left who invaded my foot space with about a thousand peanut shells but was otherwise stone quiet until the score was 5-4
When Delgado drove in Wright (who walks a guy in a slump to get to a guy with four hits, open base or not?), I didn’t much care about the gentlemen and ladies behind me in what was technically Row D but was spiritually Row F. I was too excited by the events of the previous minutes: the Phillie loss going up on the big board; the Met win unfolding before my eyes; the knowledge that there would be no extra innings and that my shotgun acquaintance with the fab four would be ending as soon as I exited, stage left (they were relieved too, ’cause it meant their ringleader could go “fucking smoke”; doing so at Shea earlier this season got him fucking thrown out, you know). I picked up my bag — its strap soaked by those fucking guys’ fucking spilled beer — and put immediate distance between me and them.
After I interrupted our post-win revelry with a rant on what jerks we were stuck sitting in front of, my friend Mike, as civil and cerebral a sort as you’ll enjoy a game with, confessed he hadn’t really heard a whole lot of what they were carrying on about because he is adversely affected by aural nerve damage.
Out of respect for Mike and the gift of hearing in general, I won’t say some guys have all the luck.
Another story on how Chipper Jones loves Shea in today’s News. I’d squeal with delight if I ever heard a Met talk like this.