Hmph.

Pretty Lady has just returned from her first Yankees game ever, and she does not understand the mystique. What fun can it be, pray tell, to support a team which is so obviously and infinitely superior to its competitors that there is no sense of suspense? No tension? No neck-and-neck drama?

Even Pretty Lady, with her knowledge of baseball gleaned primarily from nineteen-fifties Peanuts comic strips, could observe with no trouble that the Toronto pitcher was blatantly walking that fellow, I believe his name was Gianni, or something like that. True, the bases were loaded, the Yankees were up by five, and Gianni, or whoever, is evidently notorious for hitting them out of the park, as he later demonstrated. But purposely throwing four balls miles off the plate seemed to her to be contemptible behavior, cowardly and un-sporting. There was not even a pretence of giving Gianni a swing. Might as well crawl off the field on one's belly at once, and get to the bars before the thunderstorm hits.

Also, baseball fans have no sense of style. None. Pretty Lady finds it deeply offensive that hers was, by far, the coolest baseball cap in the stadium. This is morally wrong. Should not baseball fans pay greater attention to their signature element of apparel? Can they not care, at least this much? Must every single one of them sport the identical NY Yankees cap, polyester, blue with white logo, purchased at one of the blatantly opportunistic, shoddy little booths set up round the stadium?

Has no baseball fan in the history of the universe ever heard of Hills of New Zealand? With the deep brown, oiled, water-resistant exterior, the subtle plaid cotton lining? Pretty Lady has long been proud of her cool-ass baseball cap, always worn with the brim facing the rear, but heavens. Surely hers cannot be the coolest ass of all, without even trying.