Outside the Aviary: "No More Bad Town"

I live in a baseball town. In many ways, this is a dream situation. Even Yankee talk, to me, is better than constant blathering about College Basketball when the season is so far away (North Carolina-- guilty as charged). My coworkers, friends and all the customers I see every day have a new fire in their eyes, a renewed vigor that I seem to forget until the first week of October starts. Sure, some it is bloodlust for the failure of my team, but it is all in good spirit. That is, unless you're these kinds of assholes.

I've almost been in fights over sports. Hell, I've been in a fight over a beer from a fridge. But never-- even when it involves assbirds in Brosius jerseys in 2007 yelling about how A-Rod is going to make Reggie Jackson disappear in the record books-- NEVER have I considered beating the shit out of another man (with help) due to sports affiliations. In 2003, a man (in North Carolina, no less) traveled the length of a bar to inform my friend Miles and I that we enjoyed homosexual anal and oral sex after Aaron Boone's home run in the ALCS. He actually, red-faced and wielding his beer like an axe, screamed "Better luck next time, assholes." We had no idea he was even there. He was picking a fight. Still, I didn't take the bait.

Duane Somers, 32, of Huntingdon, Pa., and Edward McConaughey, 42, of Orbisonia, Pa, are the exact reason I can't watch sports in bars as often as I want to. They are the reason I refuse to talk shit, even when my team is triumphant. They are the reason I stopped wearing my Sox cap to work every day-- the inclination for wanting to get into a shouting match with someone who thought Derek Jeter was the best defender to ever play the game was too strong. The art of loving sports is a tough one. There are those that devour their teams and those devoured by them. It's a shame Carlos Ortez got devoured as well.

It brings up a philosophical quandary. I think the reason I haven't posted for this site and have talked about sports less and less with my friends stems to the fact that I hate the people that like sports to this insane level more than ever before. The debates, the sniping, the constant criticism of something I have no control over, the lumping of me-- a person that talks less shit than Pirates fans-- in with Massholes and maniacs who didn't know who Jacoby Ellsbury was until two weeks ago. It is as pointless to debate the merits of Jeter's defense and A-Rod's offense as it is to figure out the meanderings of Manny's mind. I could care less.

This is not to say I don't cheer. Nor is it to say I wasn't at a bar last night celebrating one of the most dominating pitching performances of my lifetime (Cowperwood Theory in motion). I was not, however, screaming in Yankee or Angel fans' faces. I wasn't running through the streets proclaiming anything in particular. I was just watching the game. That's all. Nothing crazy. I especially didn't feel the need to beat the hell out of someone because they didn't wear the same hat as me. The people yelling the loudest are driving me away from one of the things I was most in love with and best at disseminating (see also: my general apathy toward college football and its rabid fan base).

Say what you will about multimillionaires and free-agency "ruining the game." I'm happy for a few more social disconnects at this point. I really am. That just puts me one step closer to enjoying sports without the fear of assholes and hospitals. That just makes one less asshole willing to pick a fight with me over a retarded groupthink mentality. Maybe--hopefully-- it will allow one less Carlos Ortez incident. I mean, c'mon, all he wanted to do was watch the game and go home.