You stormed up never ending steps when it got bad, dodging the hell of taunts and jeers. Obscenities growled and mustard packets hurled.
You know they're talking about you.
Even though they're wrong because your last name ain't Wright. It's becoming deafening. You're reminded why you despise this place: battery tossers, vomit slingers, taser chasers. A prom of hooligans and you are the bitch no one wants to dance with.
You wonder why you still come here. Series after series, year after year. Depositing your ass into The Bank that rejects you. You ask for an acceptance loan, but your credit's bad. In fact it sucks. It says so on the dude's shirt to your right, the chick's shirt behind you, across from you. Fifty rows above you. All over.
You stare into the sea of red as the scoreboard floats by your sight. You look for rescue, abandoning reality for a memory. Of when it was good, amazin' to be exact.
Gooden, Strawberry, Buckner's five hole. Before the collapse. The choke on William Penn's throbbing jubilation. The 7 game lead with 17 left.
Snap back to reality.
Friday night's scoreboard lit up like an aurora borealis. One run, two run, three run, four. Cheers, but not for you.
You gaze up toward center field. No apple, only a bell- hells bell. With a crack and its waving at you. Back and forth, ding dong. Ding dong. Is it calling your name? Yes you, ding dong. The guy next to you, his name is Pat. He says you look like a blonde John Kruk, a "parade float in that jersey, cuz." So you try to fit in, the elephant in the room ordering IPA's. Intoxicating your breath with crab fries. But they see you, all blue in the face. The jersey, the jeans. You are a Mets fan, and CSN embarrassed you. All. Fucking. Weekend.