...or, "why despite -- or, perhaps, in spite of -- questioning, to no apparent end, the potential of what you had formerly regarded as your playoff-bound baseball team and, subsequently, your own worth as a human being and, furthermore, the very point of what, at this point, has become a relatively dubious prospect: your own existence, there is still, even in this darkest of hours, fun to be had at the expense of some of baseball's most annoying fans."

true to form... the incident began innocently enough.

i had somehow clawed myself out of the pits of hell that, for the most part, constitute the entirety of los angeles and, in spite of an obscene and entirely unnecessary amount of traffic on the 405 south, eventually found myself in what was, at the time, arguably a local sports bar -- though, in hindsight, more of a thinly-disguised high-dive -- with my friend corona kate.

but, as is my wont... i digress.

corona kate and i had set up camp in the outdoors smoking area, as per our usual -- mainly because corona kate cannot have a beer in one hand without having a cigarette in the other, and vice versa -- but also because the red sox - indians game was on all five of the televisions inside the bar, and i could not, at that particular moment in time, bear to watch anything even remotely related to baseball.

for the longest time, we were the only two people outside on the patio. but, as is always the case with bars, that -- given many people's penchant for lighting up the minute they consume the smallest amount of alcohol -- changed.

in the midst of a conversation concerning the finer points of aristotelian philosophy (read: whether hollywood is responsible for creating the monstrosity that is currently britney spears), corona kate and i were rudely interrupted by a guy sporting what can only be accurately be described as, much as i am loathe to use los angeles terminology, a "faux-hawk," and who wanted to know if either one of us had "a flame."

"a flame?" i said.
"a lighter," he said. "whatever."
"yeah, i've got a lighter," corona kate said. she handed it to faux-hawk, who used it to light his cigarette, and, surprisingly, handed it right back.
"so i'm kind of upset right now," he volunteered, exhaling a cloud of smoke that was altogether too near to my face for my liking.
corona kate, being the nicer of the two of us, asked, "why?"
before i could make some witty remark regarding growing up in england, or the years of therapy my friend had to go through on account of his not confronting his homosexuality at an earlier age, he said, "my team is tied with a team that is not even worth our time."
corona kate, who, for the record, knows so little about sports that she does not even have the slightest idea about when they are played during the year, asked, "what team?"
"the boston red sox."
"has football season already started?" i said.
he gave me a withering look. "the red sox are a baseball team."
"oh," i said. "my bad."
"who are the red sox playing?" corona kate asked.
"the indians," faux-hawk said. "we're tied at the moment. six to six... which is unacceptable."
"so the red sox are, like... a really good team, then? baseball team, i mean," i added hastily.
he stared at me. "something like that, yeah." he turned to corona kate. "your friend doesn't know much about baseball, does she?"
corona kate, being slightly drunk at this point, in addition to being -- for some unfathomable reason unbeknownst to me -- obviously attracted to faux-hawk, said, "well, i could have sworn i've heard her talk about baseball before... but maybe not. maybe it was someone else. anyway, i knew that the red sox were a baseball team..."

[for the record -- she most definitely did not.]

"...of course... i mean, i grew up with baseball."

[again, for the record -- she most definitely did not do this either.]

"good to know," faux-hawk said. "so maybe you, at least, can appreciate the full extent of my disappointment in watching a game like this one."
"if she had any idea how overrated the red sox, and, as a general rule, teams from the AL east are, especially when contrasted with much more deserving divisions, she wouldn't," i said.
he started. "a minute ago you had no idea that the red sox were a baseball team."
"i lied."
he stared at me. "interesting. so you're obviously not a red sox fan..."
"if by wearing a yankees hat in fenway during a yankees - red sox game in my not-so-recent past, then... yeah. i think it's fair to say i'm not much of a red sox fan."
"you're either incredibly stupid or incredibly bold to do something like that."
"let's call it the latter, for the sake of my abstaining from causing any sort of physical altercation."
he leaned back in his chair. "fair enough. so what, then? yankees fan...? i don't detect any accent."
"namely because there is none," i said. "i'm not from new york. i was born and raised in san diego."
at that, he burst out laughing. "padres... right. a true baseball fan."
"oh, that's right," i said. "i forgot. this is the part where you find out that i'm not a baseball fan, because i'm a padres fan, which obviously precludes me from being a baseball fan, as the padres as a ballclub are so dismal that they can't even be raised to the ranks of the... oh god. what is the word i'm looking for...? talented...? no. maybe not. competent...? no, that's not it, either... oh, i've got it. the 'sure thing.' wait..."
i paused. "actually, i meant to use that word in an entirely different relation. i think i meant to use it with regard to the red sox. no wait, i lied... again." i stopped. "i think i meant to use it with regard to the rox... seeing as they're the only team proving. beyond a reasonable doubt, that they deserve to go to the world series."
he smiled. "cute. but baby, at the end of the day, your team overachieved, really. i mean, especially given that outing from hoffman..."
"over and done with," i said. "speaking of saviors, or, rather, closers, yours won't save you tonight, either. twenty bucks says that despite what kind of an inning, or innings, papelbon has, the indians break this wide open."
"they aren't using papelbon tonight," he said.
i laughed. "tell you what. i'll eliminate money from the equation, but still contend that not only will papelbon pitch in at least one inning, the indians will blow this thing wide open. because really, at the end of the day, i would gain far more satisfaction knowing someone's team better than he does, in spite of the fact that i cannot stand the team or, more importantly, the fans of the team in question... I'd love nothing more than to see some faux-hawked fuck proven wrong not only in terms of who the hell is "closing", or attempting to "close" -- which, for the record, will not be the case -- he won't be "closing" anything, as the score will remain tied -- but also in terms of your team, especially with regard to your bullpen, blowing it in extra innings."
"you're on," he said.
"on for what?" i asked. "being proved a certifiable dumb fuck?"
"your friend needs to learn how to check herself," faux-hawk told corona kate.
corona kate, who had been texting someone during this particular conversation, said, "what?"

within the next hour, not only had papelbon pitched -- two innings -- the indians had also, as predicted, managed to blow the game wide open, and trounce the red sox thirteen to six.

faux-hawk had retreated inside shortly after our conversation, but i managed to catch a glimpse of him later on, after the indians had scored three runs, making the score nine to six.

"woman's intuition," i called, raising my glass of IPA in salute.
"bitch's luck," he said, giving me the finger.

"

...or, "yet another reason why starbucks -- or, rather, the starbucks in point loma -- should be avoided at all costs."

i hate the starbucks in point loma. i really do. one, you have to deal with rosecrans -- arguably the most aggravating street in the greater san diego area. i'm not entirely sure where the people in point loma learned how to drive... if you could even call what those people are capable of behind the collective wheels of their collective cars "driving." personally, i prefer barely-controlled suicidal maneuvering while simultaneously checking e-mails on the blackberry and sipping... starbucks.

but, as per usual... i digress.

i had waltzed (read: stumbled) into starbucks relatively early in the morning (read: 11:30 a.m.), only to find that a ridiculously large line of people stood between me and a venti americano on ice. needless to say... i was not too pleased. i decided, however, that being angry at the whole situation would accomplish nothing -- except for, perhaps, actually resulting in my head physically splitting open, a threat that had been lurking on the horizon ever since i'd been stupid enough to open my eyes earlier that morning. so, i took my place at the end of the line...

...only to have the guy in front of me, who i may or may not have stumbled into as i tried to navigate my way to the back of the line, turn around and say, "rough night, sweetheart?"

my wit having deserted me -- no doubt on account of there being no room for it in my head, given my massive headache -- i simply stared at the guy. in a moment of weakness, i opened my mouth to apologize -- that is, until i noticed that he was wearing a nomar garciaparra jersey.

dodgers fan.  

"actually, i was celebrating," i said.
he smirked. "twenty-first birthday?"
"no, the cubs trouncing the dodgers. ten to four, something like that..."
"eight to two."
"well, great game, regardless."
his smirk quickly faded. "don't tell me you're actually a cubs fan."
"hell no," i said.
"but you're obviously not a fan of the dodgers."
"your powers of observation are astounding."
"and your breath reeks of alcohol. let me guess... boston fan? you strike me as a let's-jump-on-the-bandwagon kind of girl."
"try padres," i said.
"strange," he said. "for half a minute there i actually thought you knew a little about baseball."
"the implication being that my being a padres fan precludes me from knowing anything about baseball. ouch."
he shrugged. "whatever turns you on, sweetheart. but i'd recommend switching your allegiance to a winning ball club. i'd hate to see a girl as cute as you waste her time with a team like the padres."
"as much as i'd love to take your advice, as a general rule i don't trust people that i can't see eye-to-eye with... if you know what i mean," i said, looking down at him -- which i'd been doing, of course, from the beginning of the conversation... as he was about two inches shorter than i was. i smiled.
he started to turn back around. "try not to puke on the jersey."
"no promises," i said.

the rest of the starbucks ordeal was relatively uneventful. dodgers guy had definitely irked me, which, in combination with the other symptoms i was experiencing at the time, did not make for a particularly pleasant starbucks -- or otherwise -- experience. however, my spirits were partly lifted when the poor seventeen-year-old barista behind the counter made the wrong drink for the dodger guy. small consolation, but every bit helps.

oh, how maggie hates those dodgers.

so, i was working earlier tonight, downtown, in my restaurant. it was completely dead, as san francisco -- with pompous asshole in tow (b.b.) -- was playing at petco. ball game days are never good for us; tonight, however, was an all-time low. apparently, a lot of people felt that they needed to go to petco to witness a travesty of baseball "history."

but i digress.

i'm a server. my section was completely empty, so, naturally, i gravitated towards the television, which was at the front of the restaurant. the game had just started, so i grabbed my water and camped out near the front, hoping -- nay, praying -- that bonds would be thwarted.

a few guys that were sitting at the bar nearby eventually noticed how transfixed i was by the game. after a few minutes, one of them leaned over the bar and said,

"you like baseball?"
"kind of," i replied, hoping the ambiguity of my answer would stall further conversation. nope.
"this is a big game, you know," the guy said.
"really." i'd thought the tone of my voice was blatantly sarcastic. the guy either didn't notice or didn't care, because then he felt the need to educate me about WHY this was such a big game.
"there's this guy," he said. "on san francisco. his name is barry bonds, and he's about to tie --"
"hank aaron's record."
he stared at me. "you know about hank aaron?"
"yeah."
"why didn't you say so?"
"you never asked."
he shifted on his barstool uncomfortably. "well, i mean, looking at you, i wouldn't have guessed..."
"that i knew how much rode on this game, with barry bonds starting and being only one shy of tying hank aaron's record...?"
"well, yeah," he muttered.
"and why is that?"
"girls don't know anything about baseball. usually," he added quickly, undoubtedly because of the look on my face.

granted, it was not the first time i've ever been doubted as a fan of baseball, nor, i'm sure, will it be the last. still, for some reason tonight -- and i'm sure it had a lot to do with my being somewhat edgy, seeing as the pads weren't out of the woods yet re: bonds -- random guy's comments kind of got to me. why can't girls be as rabid baseball fans as guys...? furthermore, what precludes us from being taken seriously...?

maybe if i'd been forty-five, heavy-set, with cat hair all over my nondescript t-shirt and thick, round granny-style glasses, i would have been taken (more?) seriously. or, better yet, if i'd been twelve, so that random guy hadn't had the chance to surreptitiously gauge the size of my chest before asking me if i "liked baseball." might as well have asked me if i liked the beach, or threesomes. jesus.