The Big Apple has worms
April 13, 2004 ~ 12:20 a.m.
BOSTON, MA��Boston sucks!�
The voice that boomed down upon me from the big man could have elicited a more stylish response. The possibilities include:
The factual: �Is that so? Well, how about those Patriots?�
The foreboding: �Listen�Steinbrenner ruined the Yankees before, and he�ll ruin them again.�
Or even the advisory: �So don�t ever go there [to Boston].�
But I have never been known for the witty retort. When my dander is up, eloquence is not my strong point. In fact, I replied the infantile: �Fuck you! New York sucks!�
The big man never even turned around, though one of his friends did, braying like a donkey at my reaction. The wife pleaded with me to calm down, that this display of inter-city rivalry wasn�t worth it.
It was in complete contrast to the young black Yankees fan whose path I crossed in Central Park an hour earlier. He had winked at me and smiled wryly. I nodded and smirked at him. We understood. But the big man who accosted me on the corner of 8th and 44th had presumed. And I think that�s what pissed me off the most.
My encounters with New Yorkers before this awful incident were distant but polite. And I�ll say this much: I don�t begrudge born-and-bred New Yorkers their Yankees (or Mets) fanfare. You�d expect that in New York. And I am grateful for true, dyed-in-the-wool New York sports fans. There wouldn�t be a great, time-honored rivalry without them.
I wanted to state my case by wearing my Red Sox cap deep in enemy territory. I intended to return the favor for all the Yankees cap-wearing cockroaches that plague my city, i.e. transplanted New Yorkers who live in Boston because it�s far cleaner and safer than their own city, even though they�ll never admit it. When I last visited New York in October 2000, I hid my Bostonian identity. Ashamed, I had determined that I would not do so this time.
I was not alone. I saw another man at Penn Station and two girls walking along 8th Avenue in front of our hotel decked out in Red Sox gear. I shouted at them, for all to hear, �Spread the faith!� The man and the two girls had gleefully acknowledged my fellow-traveler enthusiasm. This was what it was all about�reminding New Yorkers of our presence and that we can be every bit as tenacious as them. The black dude in Central Park got the point and accepted it gracefully. The white-trash asshole on 8th Avenue clearly didn�t.
I didn�t intend to piss off New Yorkers. I wanted to simply make a point. And, given the plentitude and multitude of other-team caps I noticed during my weekend tenure in America�s largest city, I knew I was far from alone in conforming to New York culture�the extent of which I don�t care to discuss. Suffice to say, one man�s culture in New York is another man�s confrontation.
We had gone our separate ways once arriving in New York. Jo (my mom-in-law), Mom and Sis left before us, and ended up doing almost everything there is to do in Midtown Manhattan, including, of course, the Empire State Building.
But the wife and I had done that during our 2000 visit and felt no real need to do it again. So we remained behind in the hotel for half-an-hour, waiting for my wife�s friend from New Jersey to call our room. She had informed her to call us at 3:30 p.m. It was four in the afternoon when the two of us decided to do something. We didn�t endure a three-hour train ride just to sit in the hotel room.
So we walked up 8th Avenue to Central Park. We crossed Columbus Circle, by the Trump International Hotel and Tower, and climbed the rocks and fed the squirrels of Central Park. The marijuana I had smoked at the hotel just before leaving had taken firm hold of me and I danced atop the rocks. A French couple applauded my performance. I bid them a loud merci beaucoup.
We walked back to the hotel along 9th Street. Looking to the west, we saw the Hudson River and the shoreline of New Jersey. We passed through Hell�s Kitchen and back to 8th Avenue along 52nd Street, although that particular thoroughfare failed to remind me of the Billy Joel album of the same name. Forget New York circa 1978; it looked more like Beirut circa 1983.
Pounding the pavements of Midtown, I can honestly say that I�ve never seen so many bags of trash in all my life. They�re everywhere. They�re piled so thick in spots that, if you weren�t particularly concerned about your hygiene or reputation for sanity, you could recline on them for a spot of rest. It just serves to exaggerate the point that one of the largest cities in the world must, by proxy, be the dirtiest.
But arrogant sports fans, heaps of rubbish and sore feet (should I have taken it as a premonition of sorts when Steely Dan�s �Bad Sneakers� echoed throughout the hotel�s lobby just before our jaunt?) cannot compare to what happened earlier today. But for that, you�ll have to wait until tomorrow �
Stay tuned.
� M.E.M.
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Copyright � 2001-2007 by M.E. Manning. All material is written by me, unless explicitly stated otherwise by use of footnotes or bylines. Do not copy or redistribute without my permission.
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