Baseball, Motherhood, Apple Pie
Oct. 17th, 2003 01:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quislibetWe understand that those three facets of archetypal Americana (for in forn parts, of course, they play soccer, eat fancy tarts, and are created in labs) came together in J.'s parents' living room last night. Her mother and the next-door neighbor (who is someone else's mother, with two children but no television reception) decided to spend the evening watching the decisive Sox-Yankees game and peeling some of those apples for the purpose of pie-manufacture. Since this convergence of archetypes was coincidental -- the game was there for the watching, the numerous apples require eating, and the mother-ness of these two women was incidental to the proceedings (except to the extent that one of them chose to e-mail her daughter about them) -- one may perhaps conclude that those who believe these three things are somehow quintessentially American might be on to something.
As for me, I'll never be a mother (barring an operation and an adoption), I prefer apple crisp or one of them fancy tarts (but I don't refuse the pie when presented), and I don't watch baseball. Except for when I do.
Last night, for instance.
Being a sports-mostly-don't-do-it-for-me type who works near Fenway Park, Red Sox fans are, collectively anyway, generally just a commuting irritant. This past week or two, however, I've found their enthusiasm infectious, even charming (since I wasn't around when some of them were overturning cars and setting fires).
It's Wednesday night. (Put the "flashback" filter on.) So there's this whole YMCA locker-room culture of middle-aged naked men watching television. Often it happens to be "Frasier" reruns. Recently, of course, the game has been on instead. As I change for another bout with the Master of Stairs, I overhear men exchanging theories and philosophies ("I'm just waiting to see how they lose this year. It might be against the Yankees, it might be against somebody else, but they'll lose. But it'll be exciting.") As I walk by the little television lounge on my way out of the locker room, a man, still dripping from the shower nearby, stands fat and naked and transfixed by the sight of some tense action on the field. "OhhHH! OhhHH! OhhHH! OhhHH!" he exclaims, finally letting out a little sigh of relief.
On the commuter train earlier the conductor burst into the car at one point and asked loudly, "Who's listening to the game?" When one man said he was, the conductor questioned him closely: Score? What inning? Who's up? Who's pitching? Anyone on base? Who, exactly? He checked in every so often, at one point asking someone jokingly to take over for him as conductor so he could get off at Lynn and get to a pub. As I exited the train via the next car, I could see groups of people clustered around those with radios, animatedly passing on the latest news to those nearby.
Last night I was making a late dinner when J. returned home from Providence. She immediately turned on the game (fellas, you know how it is with women). "Sox are up four to zero!" she exclaimed in surprise. We decided that after eating our pasta and chard that we would, if the Sox were still ahead by the end of the 7th inning, then in progress, go down to O'Neill's for a pint of beer and a kind of sports-pub ambience that we generally abhor.
And so we did. (We could have shortened our walk slightly and chosen to hang with the people standing around the pickup truck radio in the Dunkie's parking lot ... but no.) We were there for an hour -- pretty much for as long as that tragic 8th inning took. The place was reasonably packed. A DJ provided canned stadium noise, cheers, and aging rock-anthem riffs when appropriate. People shouted at the televisions, cheered, gave each other high-fives and handshakes when something went well (it made me think of that thing in church where you "Pass the Peace" to the friends or strangers in the row behind you). A lone Yankees fan at the end of the bar grew progressively louder and more smug (smugger?); he was not popular.
At the bottom of the ninth, we decided there was no point in standing around to watch this stuff, and the crowd vibe was no longer so entertaining, and accordingly we went home, where with resignation we watched the end of the game, and then returned, via sleeping and waking, to our normal sports-free world. It's a world, unfortunately, with tedious gradute-school paperwork ("please return this form within two weeks or else notify us of your intention to withdraw") and doctor's office visits, but at least there's a Mage LARP tomorrow.
This morning my co-worker, a recent transplant from Wisconsin, said, "I've only been a fan of the Red Sox for about two weeks, but I think I get what they mean."
---
P.S. As several of you are amused by baseball posts and gothic icons, I have chosen my userpic accordingly.
P.P.S. On the topic of baseball, read this.
P.P.P.S. And this.
As for me, I'll never be a mother (barring an operation and an adoption), I prefer apple crisp or one of them fancy tarts (but I don't refuse the pie when presented), and I don't watch baseball. Except for when I do.
Last night, for instance.
Being a sports-mostly-don't-do-it-for-me type who works near Fenway Park, Red Sox fans are, collectively anyway, generally just a commuting irritant. This past week or two, however, I've found their enthusiasm infectious, even charming (since I wasn't around when some of them were overturning cars and setting fires).
It's Wednesday night. (Put the "flashback" filter on.) So there's this whole YMCA locker-room culture of middle-aged naked men watching television. Often it happens to be "Frasier" reruns. Recently, of course, the game has been on instead. As I change for another bout with the Master of Stairs, I overhear men exchanging theories and philosophies ("I'm just waiting to see how they lose this year. It might be against the Yankees, it might be against somebody else, but they'll lose. But it'll be exciting.") As I walk by the little television lounge on my way out of the locker room, a man, still dripping from the shower nearby, stands fat and naked and transfixed by the sight of some tense action on the field. "OhhHH! OhhHH! OhhHH! OhhHH!" he exclaims, finally letting out a little sigh of relief.
On the commuter train earlier the conductor burst into the car at one point and asked loudly, "Who's listening to the game?" When one man said he was, the conductor questioned him closely: Score? What inning? Who's up? Who's pitching? Anyone on base? Who, exactly? He checked in every so often, at one point asking someone jokingly to take over for him as conductor so he could get off at Lynn and get to a pub. As I exited the train via the next car, I could see groups of people clustered around those with radios, animatedly passing on the latest news to those nearby.
Last night I was making a late dinner when J. returned home from Providence. She immediately turned on the game (fellas, you know how it is with women). "Sox are up four to zero!" she exclaimed in surprise. We decided that after eating our pasta and chard that we would, if the Sox were still ahead by the end of the 7th inning, then in progress, go down to O'Neill's for a pint of beer and a kind of sports-pub ambience that we generally abhor.
And so we did. (We could have shortened our walk slightly and chosen to hang with the people standing around the pickup truck radio in the Dunkie's parking lot ... but no.) We were there for an hour -- pretty much for as long as that tragic 8th inning took. The place was reasonably packed. A DJ provided canned stadium noise, cheers, and aging rock-anthem riffs when appropriate. People shouted at the televisions, cheered, gave each other high-fives and handshakes when something went well (it made me think of that thing in church where you "Pass the Peace" to the friends or strangers in the row behind you). A lone Yankees fan at the end of the bar grew progressively louder and more smug (smugger?); he was not popular.
At the bottom of the ninth, we decided there was no point in standing around to watch this stuff, and the crowd vibe was no longer so entertaining, and accordingly we went home, where with resignation we watched the end of the game, and then returned, via sleeping and waking, to our normal sports-free world. It's a world, unfortunately, with tedious gradute-school paperwork ("please return this form within two weeks or else notify us of your intention to withdraw") and doctor's office visits, but at least there's a Mage LARP tomorrow.
This morning my co-worker, a recent transplant from Wisconsin, said, "I've only been a fan of the Red Sox for about two weeks, but I think I get what they mean."
---
P.S. As several of you are amused by baseball posts and gothic icons, I have chosen my userpic accordingly.
P.P.S. On the topic of baseball, read this.
P.P.P.S. And this.
