Tuesday, November 02, 2010
I am a misfit. The Giants won the World Series tonight and while I am happy for them and their many fans, I couldn't care less. San Francisco is exploding with screaming, cheering, honking horns, dancing in the streets and general hysteria, but the whole thing makes me yawn. I am laying low in my apartment, avoiding everyone so I won't have to pretend to a manic joy I don't feel, which I could fake about as well as the Saturday Night Live Coneheads managed to blend with their neighbors. Besides, I look terrible in orange.
I know it's downright un-American, even subversive, to prefer a good book when I could be watching baseball on TV, but I haven't had a favorite team since the Brooklyn Dodgers moved to Los Angeles when I was a kid. Like all New Yorkers, I felt abandoned. Betrayed. I could get psychoanalytical and say that I never got over it, but frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.
Far be it from me to rain on anyone's parade. Our nation's pastime is a perfectly fine game. I have even enjoyed playing it on occasion. But one team's victory over another does not make me walk taller. I have never understood sport rivalries when so many other things are more interesting. In fact, I am so disinclined to commemorate a baseball landmark that I didn't even remember to post this confession, which I wrote last night.