I went to the Red Sox game last night that wasn’t. Sitting in the outfield grandstands provided a dry atmosphere, and then came the booming voice of the public address announcer.
“The Red Sox thank you for your patience, but because God hates you, this game has been postponed. The tickets will be honored at the make-up date, tomorrow at 12:35, when odds are most of you won’t be able to go.”
He was right. Not many of us were able to go. So the soggy Sox faithful trudged out of Fenway and back from whence they came. I estimate 70% headed back to the T-station at Kenmore square.
You ever see the movie “28 Weeks Later” where the Americans quarantine all the Brits after an initial outbreak of “Infection?” Yeah, that’s what this looked like. I was waiting for someone to start puking blood and all mayhem to break loose.
Fortunately, this did not occur. It’s amazing how many people were drunk, though. One woman, who was no older than 24, yammered on about her season tickets.
“I’ve beens goin to tha Red Shox for 13 yearzz! F**k the other pashengers on this train! It’s too pack’d!”
When her boyfriend (poor guy) was talking to another passenger on the train about cookies, for some reason:
“Hey! My mom makes you cookies! She’s wicked nice to you!”
You don’t say.
Truth be told I enjoy a drunk fan. Mostly because they are the scourge of everyone’s existence after a rain out. The drunks shoot their mouths off and I look at the faces surrounding them I like to play a little game I call, “How does that person want to murder the drunk?” It’s fun. Most looks imply throwing the person onto the railroad tracks. Then comes the deflated look when they realize this won’t happen.
But, when all was said and done, we made it back to the car by 10, when a normally-started game would have ended.