Drove down to see the Marlins last night.
“So you survived the Yankee fans,” I said to the parking attendant.
“I’m still recovering,” she said wearily. “They have no respect for Miami. Such rude people.”
I parked on the second level and walked to the stadium, estimating the amount of time one interacts with a parking attendant. Thirty seconds? Sixty? And yet Yankee fans had managed in that span to demonstrate ill manners. The New York minute.
Then I wondered what they could possibly have been rude about. It couldn’t have been the fee: $15 to park would have seemed a bargain to any New Yorker. And surely they didn’t insult the Marlins’ owner. Perhaps they found the attendant too slow with the credit card machine.
I showed my ID and picked up my free ticket (Seniors Thursday), though the young man who had directed me to the table said I looked “pretty young.” At the top of the escalator a member of the stadium staff greeted me with “Buenos noches.” Apparently I also looked Hispanic.
I walked past the senior ghetto in Section 25 and followed some thirtysomethings down the steps to a row of empty seats behind third base. I took the one on the aisle. The protective netting behind home plate had been extended since last year, insuring that I wouldn’t be hit with a foul ball.
Also new, at least to me, were the bongo cam – when fans, as soon as a camera was aimed at them, pretended to beat on drums – and the dance cam. Actually the name of the later camera was superfluous as people danced on screen at every inning break. Some were quite good; all transmitted an infectious joy. There didn’t seem to be a New Yorker in the house.
