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.
In the first inning of the Marlins-Braves game last night, Braves slugger Ronald Aruna Jr. – who had led off the previous three games with a home run – was hit by a pitch. It is a common and despicable practice in baseball. A tennis player, after getting aced four times, does not, in the next game, hit the ball as hard as he can at his opponent.
Interesting that the team that refuses to put its players’ names on jerseys is the one that’s the most profligate in its spending to get the biggest stars.
I used to think the ESPYS were silly and redundant: Why award people who've already won? Yet last night's show - honoring Jim Kelly, Jake Wood, the murdered coaches at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High, the "sister survivors" of Larry Nassar - made every other awards show look hopelessly trite.
It's going to be a difficult week for fans of soccer and lawn tennis.
Yesterday I picked up my friend Don in Boca and drove to Delray, where we had reservations to watch the England vs. Croatia match at the Blue Anchor Pub. (I had called Monday, repeatedly, and failed to get through, but somehow Hania had had success.) I found a parking spot on Atlantic Avenue and discovered that you now have to pay for parking in the city. I put my credit card in the machine and got time till 4:13.
The pub was packed. It took a while for the hostess to greet us; when she did, she told me my name was nowhere on the list. I told her my wife had reserved a table for two and, begrudgingly, she led us to a table/booth in the darkened back of the pub, in front of a regular size TV. The people in the bright front room had a large screen.
I ordered a shandy and a Ploughman’s lunch, asking if the baguette was fresh. “Sir, I’m too busy,” the harried waitress said, before adding perfunctorily “Yes, it’s fresh.”
Music blared from speakers, despite the fact that the TV was showing the pre-match program. Don put in earplugs. It surprised me that the English were louder than the Brazilians had been.
Our lunch arrived; Don’s fish and chips looked a lot better than my Ploughman’s lunch. The baguette was more of a hoagie roll.
Someone turned off the music shortly before both teams walked onto the field. Halfway through “God Save the Queen,” the picture froze and the sound went off. The singing of the anthem was taken up by patrons at the bar.
As if inspired by this, the English scored early on a free kick.
I asked a waiter what the Wifi password was. He told me the restroom was in the corner. I repeated that I wanted the PASSWORD and he gruffly told me he was too busy.
In the second half I went to use the men’s room – I now knew where it was – and squeezed my way past crowds at the bar. While inside, I heard a loud groan, and when I emerged I learned that Croatia had scored their first goal.
The match went into overtime. After the first 15 minutes, I went out to add more parking time and found that I had a parking ticket. Apparently, there is a three-hour limit, despite the fact that the machines sell tickets for more than three hours.
When I returned to the pub, I learned that Croatia had gone ahead.