Let's Go YANKS?

As you may or may not know, I am a New York Yankees fan. As you may or may not know, I'm not a big sports fan in general. In my logical heart of hearts I know that sports are stupid, and that no team is really all that much better than another. However, with what little passion I have for sports, I make love to the New York Yankees.

I'm no expert on the Yankees. I don't know who the starting pitcher is today. I don't know his record away or at home. I don't even really know who the outfielders are right now. I do know that the Yankees are somehow miraculously within a game or two of the Red Sox, and that they're desperate to make it to the playoffs. Whether or not they deserve to (again, my rational, logical mind tells me this) has yet to be determined.

So, in their infinite wisdom (and bankroll) the Yankees went out and got Bobby Abreu and Corey Lidle.

To me, the entire Yankees season has been like a bad date. Sure there were a few moments where we got a smile. And there was a great conversation where we talked about the few favorite movies we have in common. But then all of a sudden we brought up our ex, and things got awkward again. Now dinner's over. The silence is defeaning, and we are DESPERATE.

We are desperate for sex.

Desperate for a kiss.

Desperate for a second date.

Anything.

So what do we do?

We order a bottle of really expensive champagne.

Veuve Cliquot = Bobby Abreu.

Why did I say "expensive" and "Veuve" in the same thought? Because the Yankees always overpay. They get a $25 bottle of champagne for $90.

Regardless, chasing a mediocre meal and mediocre conversation with a hundred dollar bottle of champagne stinks of our inherent desperation, and is also fairly embarassing. It's also mildly insulting to our date, who knows we're trying to make up for our inadequacies by spending money we don't have, and by trying to get her drunk in order to create the illusion of us looking better than we really are.

In the end, it ends up being a case of throwing good money after bad. It might be our lack of a sense of reality, or an inability to admit defeat, but the champagne doesn't save anything. We don't realize that we should probably call it a night. Turn in early. Get a jump on tomorrow. Nope. Instead we pull the one move that soothes our conscience just enough to think there's a slight shadow of a hint of a possibilty that going in for that goodnight kiss might somehow be miraculously warranted. It's not.

And what if she doesn't turn her cheek? What if she actually takes pity on you, and decides to let you lay one on her? She's not going to invite you inside, and it's certainly not going any further than tonight. What then? You spent an extra hundred bucks to get strung along? To get a little smooch from some dame who thinks it'd be easier to pump fake you now, and then delete your number?? No thanks.

So, the Yanks might make the Wild Card. They may actually get to plant a proverbial pucker on a pair of pretty parted lips - but I can guarantee one thing - if she does save our number, it'll only be so she can remember to ignore the call until next season.