Monday, March 31, 2003
Yeah, they played a game last night, but today is Opening Day.
Is this not the best day of the year? This is our universal American experience on Opening Day:
The grass is fresh cut and slightly greener, the air is a little sweeter, your friendly neighborhood Brazilian supermodel feeling just a touch more insecure and eager to please. On Opening Day she might just bring someone else along and make the usual, by-now-humdrum supermodel sandwich a triple-decker. The crack of the bats, the pop of a fastball in the mitts on the television are drowned out by the squeals and screams and laughter and vaguely dirty Portuguese stifled whispers of your eager, curvy partners fresh from a stint on the Sao Paolo runways. They twirl from the swing above the waterbed you reserve for Opening Day celebrations, asking quaint questions about what ERA means and why there are three outs not four as they nibble on your ear and talk back to the butler as he refreshes the champagne bucket for the second time this inning. They tell you how they like baseball players but they like freewheeling, globe-trotting, frequently intoxicated sellout writers better. You ask them how to say naughty baseball innuendo in their lilting native tongue. They giggle and come up with some intersting ones of their own. You fall asleep hanging off one edge of the bed, it gently undulating under your tired back, as the television crowd's seventh-inning stretch song lulls you.
It's snowing in Baltimore but it's ninety in Hollywood. Everyone's playing ball.
The Yankees win, the Red Sox lose.
There is order on Opening Day.