Club soda, the Yankees and tears. Carbonated tears.
People are obnoxious. Petty. Obnoxious. And CRUEL.
Case in point.
I walk into my office today, and my coworker who DOES NOT EVEN WATCH baseball is like,
“Hi, Lauren, how are you?”
I swear to GOD she had the nerve to say that to me.
And I just ignored her. And rolled my eyes. I mean, hello, can you BE any more petty? Apparently, because just now- my boss was like, “Is it still raining?”
And I almost lost it.
Rays sympathizers. They’re everywhere. And they are so fricking condescending. Is it still raining? IS IT STILL RAINING????
I don’t know guys. I DO NOT KNOW. SHUT YOUR FACE.
There are articles. NEW and SHAMEFUL ones. See? See?
The Sox led 5-4 through six innings, at which point Francona called upon set-up man Daniel Bard to start the seventh inning for the first time in this season. In the eighth, with two men on base, Francona called on closer Jonathan Papelbon for a five-out save for the first time this year. The moves subsequently blew up in the manager’s face like some cheap, trick cigar, undoubtedly giving Francona the kind of ammunition against those who lately have wondered whether he has managed too passively.
Don’t forget about the New York Times!
And then the Times talks about stupid Curt Schilling and his stupid quotes.
By the time Schilling’s proclamation was relayed to him Tuesday afternoon, Manager Terry Francona was already in mid-snarl, responding with a dismissive “O.K.” followed by an unprintable rejoinder, followed by a simple “I don’t care.”
And this one! Don’t forget about this zinger!
The Red Sox already have collapsed. It is only a matter now of whether this turns out to be the worst collapse in the history of the 162-game schedule or something less historic confined to September swoons of forgettable postseason teams.
Oh. Look. ‘Five Reasons Why the Red Sox are Doomed.
Tito, Tito, Tito. Fail. Fail. Fail.
I mean, usually in a situation like this, I’d take a deep breath. A deep one. I’d hold it for a second. And I’d think about what Kevin Youkilis would do. But, since all Kevin Youkilis can do is have a HERNIA, that option is shot to hell. WWKYD? Gah. And, just FYI, Youkie. I LOOKED UP what a hernia is. And that sounds made up.
And yesterday? OH YESTERDAY.
I decided that, since the Sox can’t WIN their way to the playoffs, maybe Tampa can LOSE its way out of them. So I did the unthinkable. THE UNTHINKABLE. And part of my soul is tainted. Hopefully it’s a part I wasn’t using anyway.
I found the most unobtrusive sweatshirt I could find. I pulled the strings so the hood was around my face and I went to a bar I never go to. A bar I NEVER go to. On Highway 105, near a college apartment complex and a vet’s office. No one must know, I thought. No one must see.
And I, quietly, carefully, shamefully, asked the bartender to put on the YANKEES GAME.
No, I said. Not the Red Sox game. The YANKEES GAME. I actually had to have him CHANGE THE CHANNEL.
I sit in a quiet corner booth. By myself, pull my knees up. And order a club soda.
“A club soda?”
“A club soda.”
Club soda tastes like tears, in case you were wondering.
And I sat there. Playing with my straw.
That’s when he walked in.
“Lauren! I didn’t know you came here.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“Is that the Yankees game?”
The only person that I talk to who is a genuine Yankees fan. He’s my Facebook friend, see. The ONLY GENUINE Yankees fan in Boone. Is at this bar. At this time. And I… I have nothing but a sweatshirt, club soda, tears and SHAME.
“Did you lose a bet?”
“Something like that.”
“Hey, everybody, this is Lauren, and she’s watching a Yankees game.”
Did I mention this guy is a jackass? Did I mention that?
That’s when the chanting started. I mean, he said I was imagining the chanting. But how do you imagine chanting? There’s either chanting or there’s not chanting. And the room got all swirly.
He talked the whole time. The whole time. About Rivera’s stupid save. About stupid Nick Swisher and his stupid children’s book. About how David Ortiz and Adrian Gonzalez are “totally on steroids.”
And I just sat there. Rocking slightly. Eyes glued to the screen. Hoping. Wishing. That the bar would flood. You know. That the club soda tap would go on a soda rampage and fill the whole bar with club soda. Like the flood in Alice in Wonderland. Except instead of tears, it’s club soda. Which, as I already stated, is virtually the same thing. I started imagining that the bar stools were floating. The ash trays bobbing around in the soda surf. What the little bubbles would feel like against my toes. I started to imagine that the soda was up to my knees. To my shoulders. Just to my nostrils. I started glancing around for what I could hold onto. What I could use as an escape raft. That’s when I started to get seasick.
And I lasted for seven innings. SEVEN innings. And then I just had to go. I said I was going to the bathroom and I put three dollars on the table and I left. I left.
You. YOU DID THIS TO ME, Curt Young. YOU DID THIS. And TITO…
I do not know.
I do. Not. KNOW.
So someone. ANYONE. Give me a positive spin on this. Because I am falling short.
In conclusion. Club Soda is gross. The Red Sox hate us all. And Curt Young and Tito need a SERIOUS time out.
I MISS KEVIN YOUKILIS.