It’s a weird feeling when you watch the Yankees so much that you notice when a player gets a haircut between games.
The Yanks are my spirit animal. And since opening day happened to fall yesterday while I was in New York, I got a boner, and then a kickass seat to the game.
With a game-time temp of 36°, I wore eight layers of clothing (11 if you include two pairs of underwear and jeans). To escape the cold for a few minutes pregame, I ducked into the Yankee museum, where the display featuring a ball signed by every Yankee ever has grown to herculean proportions.
I couldn’t figure out why, among the bats, balls and jerseys up for an auction benefiting charity, was a Star Wars autograph. Different species of nerds, Yanks.
One of the birthday wishes on the big screen was to a guy named Vinny Romano. I wondered, in a stadium in the Bronx, how many guys had that name. My friend Rob guestimated 1,849.
The freezing conditions resulted in a contrasting set of lines for ice cream and hot soup.
New Yorkers are pussies.
