A Day Not At The Ballpark

I had some beers last night. They were tasty. Today, I am a shell of myself.

This is all too common.

I’m not sure if this is due to the heat, the humidity, or my 31-year-old body rejecting the comforts of sweet, sweet Henry Hudson IPA. I suspect it’s all three. I’m at work and barely awake and my stomach is mad at me. It wants fruit and only fruit. I have fed it plums and it has stopped acting up, for now.

The thing is, I was worn down even before I kicked back some brewskis and ate terrible Mexican food with my friend Nate. I was sitting on the steps of a church at Livingston and Clinton Streets in Brooklyn Heights, making a crossword puzzle, when I got a phone call yesterday from another friend, Sam. He said he had an extra ticket to a Brooklyn Cyclones game that began in an hour. His wife is due in two weeks and he wanted to know if I would go, knowing that this was probably his last chance to see a game before Sammy E_____ Jr. arrives.

I said no.

My “no” was not borne of viciousness; I was just exhausted. Beyond that, I’m sick of going to baseball games in the city. I’ve seen Mets, Yankees, and Cyclones home games no fewer than 25 times, and Cyclones games no fewer than 10. The novelty has completely worn off on me. As great as Cyclones games inherently are, it would be difficult for me to summon the necessary zip to thoroughly enjoy it, especially after the 45-minute train ride.

That’s not to say I don’t like going to baseball games. I had a great time going to the World Baseball Classic at the Miami dump this year, and had a similarly great time consuming some Akron Aeros minor league action last July 4th. In fact, I love these experiences even more for what they’re not: New York baseball. I’m just worn out on Mets and Yankees fans, and Red Sox fans who think I empathize with them. I don’t. I’m just tired.

And when the beer isn’t even helping, it might be time for a change.