…But pretty close.
The scene is my living room. After text messaging the Gentleman Caller to update him on the Yankees’ score, only to see them blow it in the fourteenth, my phone rings…
GC: Fucking Joe Torre! I defended him the whole fucking season when things went wrong, but now he pulls THIS kind of shit in the fourteenth inning of one of the last games of the season on a night when the Sox won? Fuck that guy!
Me: It’s his bad habit. Torre always feels like when there’s pressure, he has to DO something, he can’t just let things play out, so he over manages and screws himself–
GC: He fucking took out Melky! Melky is clutch! For Wilson fucking Betemit! Who the fuck is that guy?
Me: You know how I feel about Melky. I love Melky. And Brian Bruney? Really?
GC: Damn it! Okay. I’m going back into the bar now.
Me: Allrighty. Drink away the pain.
GC: I will… You know everyone who walked past me on the sidewalk assumes I’m ranting to a guy, right?
Me: …There’s absolutely nothing I can think of to say to that.
