bleachers. By the law of averages, I was now sitting in one of the most dangerous parts of the stadium.
The first batter for the Yankees stepped up to the plate.
On the huge screen broadcasting the game, the picture jumped from the batter to a bunch of hysterical, chest-painted fans holding up a sheet with a bull’s-eye painted on it.
“Oh crap,” I said, swinging around and spilling Coke all over myself.
“Hey, we’re on TV!” my brother screamed.
Everybody around me was waving like crazy for the camera. They were jumping up and making faces and pointing at the screen, and since most of them were totally drunk, they were knocking into each other and creating a scene of total chaos. The camera had already jumped back to the batter, but the commotion in our section was just beginning. One large drunk man accidentally knocked into the drunk girlfriend of another large drunk man, and she began to curse him out at the top of her lungs. Then the drunk girlfriend of the first drunk man stepped forward and began to shout curses back, and all the other large drunk men in the section began to whoop and cheer and scream.
“Catfight!” someone yelled, and the chant was taken up, broken only by a few screams of “Take it off!”
I had never seen women fight before, and I found the spectacle oddly exhilarating. Without realizing it, I had taken up the chant with the crowd and was standing on my seat to get a better view of the action. Policemen were rushing up the aisle, but it was taking them a long time to get throught he mass of large drunk men who had formed a ring around the female combatants.
Nobody around me was watching the game, so nobody saw the pitcher rear back and throw, the batter step forward and swing, and the ball jump off the bat and hurtle through the air. When the crowd roared, we turned to find the outfielders running back. The people around me began to scream and make lunging movements. The ball glanced off somebody’s glove, ricocheted into my face, and fell to the ground. My brother pounced, and suddenly there we were on the big screen, my brother holding the ball triumphantly, and me, next to him, with a dazed look on my face and blood dripping from my nose.
The game ended up going to extra innings before the Yankees finally won. Everybody said it was one of the best games of the season, and they kept showing highlights on all the sports shows. We weren’t there when the game ended, though. My nose was spurting so much blood that my father rushed me to the stadium’s medical station, where they patched me up. My father made some dumb jokes to try to get me to laugh, and my brother even offered me the baseball. The thing is, I wasn’t really that upset. I had been so sure a baseball would hit me and that when I got hit I would lose sight in one eye or break a bone in my cheek that I felt lucky to be escaping with just a bloody nose.
My mother, who had watched the whole game on television hoping to catch a glimpse of us, was beside herself by the time we got home. I let her make a fuss over me for awhile and cook my favorite meal, lasagna. At dinner that night, she sprung the good news. My mentally unstable grandmother had sent mea plane ticket to come visit her in Chicago as soon as school let out.
FEBRUARY
Everything has settled back into place with Neil and Katie. Katie became fed up with Neil acting as if they were a couple, and Neil became fed up with Katie only allowing him to touch her when she was drunk. They both complained to me in private, and I did my best to stoke the fires of discontent without making it too obvious. Now we’re all friends again, and life feels like it has returned to normal.
“Would you rather be blind or deaf?” Neil asks as the three of us sit in Katie’s living room flipping channels on the TV.
Katie smiles. “Deaf. Then I wouldn’t have to listen to you. Would you rather be crippled or a dwarf?”
“Crippled, how?” I ask.
“I don’t know.
The first batter for the Yankees stepped up to the plate.
On the huge screen broadcasting the game, the picture jumped from the batter to a bunch of hysterical, chest-painted fans holding up a sheet with a bull’s-eye painted on it.
“Oh crap,” I said, swinging around and spilling Coke all over myself.
“Hey, we’re on TV!” my brother screamed.
Everybody around me was waving like crazy for the camera. They were jumping up and making faces and pointing at the screen, and since most of them were totally drunk, they were knocking into each other and creating a scene of total chaos. The camera had already jumped back to the batter, but the commotion in our section was just beginning. One large drunk man accidentally knocked into the drunk girlfriend of another large drunk man, and she began to curse him out at the top of her lungs. Then the drunk girlfriend of the first drunk man stepped forward and began to shout curses back, and all the other large drunk men in the section began to whoop and cheer and scream.
“Catfight!” someone yelled, and the chant was taken up, broken only by a few screams of “Take it off!”
I had never seen women fight before, and I found the spectacle oddly exhilarating. Without realizing it, I had taken up the chant with the crowd and was standing on my seat to get a better view of the action. Policemen were rushing up the aisle, but it was taking them a long time to get throught he mass of large drunk men who had formed a ring around the female combatants.
Nobody around me was watching the game, so nobody saw the pitcher rear back and throw, the batter step forward and swing, and the ball jump off the bat and hurtle through the air. When the crowd roared, we turned to find the outfielders running back. The people around me began to scream and make lunging movements. The ball glanced off somebody’s glove, ricocheted into my face, and fell to the ground. My brother pounced, and suddenly there we were on the big screen, my brother holding the ball triumphantly, and me, next to him, with a dazed look on my face and blood dripping from my nose.
The game ended up going to extra innings before the Yankees finally won. Everybody said it was one of the best games of the season, and they kept showing highlights on all the sports shows. We weren’t there when the game ended, though. My nose was spurting so much blood that my father rushed me to the stadium’s medical station, where they patched me up. My father made some dumb jokes to try to get me to laugh, and my brother even offered me the baseball. The thing is, I wasn’t really that upset. I had been so sure a baseball would hit me and that when I got hit I would lose sight in one eye or break a bone in my cheek that I felt lucky to be escaping with just a bloody nose.
My mother, who had watched the whole game on television hoping to catch a glimpse of us, was beside herself by the time we got home. I let her make a fuss over me for awhile and cook my favorite meal, lasagna. At dinner that night, she sprung the good news. My mentally unstable grandmother had sent mea plane ticket to come visit her in Chicago as soon as school let out.
FEBRUARY
Everything has settled back into place with Neil and Katie. Katie became fed up with Neil acting as if they were a couple, and Neil became fed up with Katie only allowing him to touch her when she was drunk. They both complained to me in private, and I did my best to stoke the fires of discontent without making it too obvious. Now we’re all friends again, and life feels like it has returned to normal.
“Would you rather be blind or deaf?” Neil asks as the three of us sit in Katie’s living room flipping channels on the TV.
Katie smiles. “Deaf. Then I wouldn’t have to listen to you. Would you rather be crippled or a dwarf?”
“Crippled, how?” I ask.
“I don’t know.
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