Excuses

One of the many reasons for which I’m grateful to have married my husband is that we have the same, i.e., limited, interests in sports.  We hate football, are mildly interested in basketball, will watch hockey only until the moment blood flows or teeth are broken – and love baseball.  Marc is a Dodger (LA, not the real ones) fan, and although for most of my life I have followed the trials, tribulations and triumphs of the Mets, my practice is to become a fervent supporter of the home team wherever we’ve lived.  So that means 15+ years as a Mariners fan, and the last two seasons following the Rockies.

Obviously, with such a background, I hate the Yankees.  Few public figures disgust me as much as George Steinbrenner and Rudy Giuliani, and the latter’s leering dentition creeped me out during the playoff season.

But what’s a girl to do when the damn Phillies beat both the Rockies and the Dodgers?  I couldn’t simply turn around to root for them, so alas, I grudgingly allotted my cheers to the Yankees.  Maybe it was just A-Rod’s channeling Edgar Martinez at the plate, maybe it was sheer loyalty to my roots.

That doesn’t mean I don’t feel dirty, though.  So in tribute to all that’s icky and unsanitary about baseball, I offer you the baseball dugout mainstay, ever so appropriately named: