America's last time

By the time you read this, Game 6, and hopefully Game 7, of the Dodger NLCS will have been concluded. Hopefully, if the Dodger bats wake up and the injury-ridden team rallies, they'll be making another World Series appearance. If not it will be the Houston Astros vs. Atlanta Braves and my baseball viewership will drop off the radar.

I hate both those teams. Houston, because they are convicted cheaters and because Houston is located in Texas:

Texas, now with 37% more Florida. 

Texas, the Lone Brain Cell State.

Texas, everything stupider in Texas.

Sorry, bad sloganeering habit.

Nor will I be rooting for the Braves and their obnoxious racist fans and their cringey Tomahawk Chop or whatever the fuck they call it. Only in America do we celebrate and mock the very people whose land we invaded and stole. 

Imagine a team called the Des Moines Caucasians. And their logo was a tiki torch or a jar of mayonnaise. Then you'd surely see some GOP Cancel Culture. 

That is not so say I won't be watching the World Series. I will. Just not for the baseball. For me the more fascinating aspect, particularly of late, is watching the fans behind home plate. My obsession began with this schmuck from years ago.

For the uninitiated, his name is Grant Cardone, a modern day Tony Robbins-wannabe internet charlatan. Seen here pimping his Profit Prophecy. Grant smartly purchased these super expensive seats ( and then promptly wrote them off on his tax returns, meaning we all foot the bill for this bullshit) during the playoffs in order to get national attention, peacock his trophy wife and hawk his brain-melting positivity.

To top it off, I just discovered Grant is a high level Scientologist. I think it's clear from last week's tete-a-tete with Kirstie Alley how I feel about these nutters. Fortunately, Grant accepted my linkedin invitation and I can, and have, trolled his feed. I will now step up my game.

Last week, during the Giants playoffs for the pennant (I miss them calling it the pennant), there was another obnoxious fan right behind home plate, who ignored his girlfriend, stood up for every foul tip and generally made an ass of himself. I know that because many observers on Twitter said so in digital ink.

But, by far the ones who annoy me the most are the baseball ignorant. The ones who spend upwards of $5000 (I'm guessing) to sit in these primo seats and then spend the next 4 hours chatting or texting on their phones. There could be runners at second and third, 2 outs, bottom of the 12th inning and a power slugger at the plate fouling off balls to extend the at bat, and these clowns are clicking and clacking as if they're sitting on the can at home.

Why? 

I miss real baseball fans. Old guys in suits and porkpie hats, chomping on cigars, downing Rheingold beer and letting loose a rash of insults that would set your ears on fire. I miss people walking down the street with a tiny transistor radio glued to the side of their head. I miss the collective groan of apartment dwellers in Jackson Heights that would swell up from the open windows when Swoboda would strike out or Koosman would give up a triple.

I miss real baseball.