Fustigate Means to Beat with a Stick: A Bat is a Stick
Wednesday night I attended a baseball game at Fenway Park in Boston. I witnessed the Redsox pummell the Mets. I went with a Mets fan who wore a Mets jersey. Everyone assumed I was a Mets fan, though I wore no jersey--fandom by association. I'm in fact a Yankees fan. I lacked the courage to correct any of the red sox nation. I figured why get fustigated when my team isn't even playing. Many people in and out of New York judge me for my allegiance to the Bronx Bombers. I explain that I would have been a Dodgers fan but they left Brooklyn before I was born, and there was no way I was going to be a Mets fan, they play all the way out at the end of Queens, that's almost Long Island. And if there was one place I was taught to hate growing up in NJ it was Long Island. (Yes, it's kind of like a Nazi hating a fascist for the fascist's political philosophies.)
I could go on about my experiences at Wednesday's game but I'd rather go back in time: I believe it was late May 2005. I attended another inter-league game at Shea Stadium.
I had been invited to witness the Yankees take on the Mets at Shea Stadium. The owner of the tickets had informed me that the game started at 7:30pm. Groovy. I had time to run errands during the day and then head out to Queens. I rode my bike into Manhattan to meet with an Eastern Athletic gym manager about my teaching kickboxing there. As I rode I realized I had made a poor wardrobe choice. I wore a long sleeve, navy-blue, heavy cotton shirt. Turns out weather.com and I have different ideas of what morning is. Weather.com stated that it would be in the mid-60s in the morning. I woke up at about 11 am and I traversed the Manhattan Bridge near noon. At that point in the day the temperture had exceeded 65 degrees by a good 15 degrees. (This of course is all Farenheint. If it were Kelvin I'd be dead.) No problem. I'll meet with Eastern Athletics and then go home and change. As I sit talking to the gym gal, my phone buzzes. I can't really answer it right then. A few minutes go by, the phone rings again. I glance down at the display, it's the Mets fan. (That's actually his legal name.) Still I can't answer the phone. The phone rings again, I'm still in discussion with the gym lady. Finally she leaves me to fill out w-2s and I-9s. I, having worked in an office, was able to multi-task. I listened to my messages and entered my social security number on sheets of paper. The messages said, "Rachael, uhh I read the tickets wrong. The game starts at 1:15pm. Call me back." "Hey, Rachael. Where are you?" "Rachael, what the fuck? Call me back."
I quickly finish up with the gym lady, lock my bike up downtown on Church Street, and hop on the subway.
We made it to the game on time, but our seats are right underneath the Sun and right behind die hard Mets fans. I'm baking in that long heavy dark shirt of mine. I ask the Met's Fan who is wearing a Mets jersey over a t-shirt if I could borrow his T-shirt. He only offers me the jersey, because I seem to only surround myself with smart asses. "Come-on just let me borrow the non-affilated t-shirt." I'm denied. Weak from impending heat-stroke I submit to the offer to wear the Mets jersey.
So now, the Yankees are loosing. The drunken, gregarious Queen natives are very excited. Everytime the Mets turn a double play, or the Mets score a run the Queens guys-- who like to refer to Alex Rodreguiez, nickname A-Rod, as Gay-Rod-- they turn around and give me high-five. I don't want to give them a celebritory high-five, my team is loosing, but I'm in this huge Mets jersey. So everytime I awkwardly and dis-heartenedly engage them in their hand slapping. I don't think they really have the time to hear the crazy circumstances that landed this Yankees fan in a Mets jersey. I don't think they'd understand if I explained, "Thanks for including me and all, but actually I hope your team looses. Sorry for the confusion. Go Yankees! High-five right here guys."
Lesson: don't befriend Mets fans they're ball-busters.