On my walk to the train last night, I was all but giddy to pass through swarms of hot beefy guys in clingy navy blue t-shirts that said “Swisher #33” across the back. I sincerely thought it was gay baseball innuendo, like those tacky couples you see wearing matching “pitcher” and “catcher” t-shirts. I was all, “Heeeeyyyy! Swish on, girl!” and trynna get numbers… Imagine my disappointment to learn that Nick Swisher is actually first baseman for the NY Yankees. Apparently there was a game last night. (This explains why my cat calls were met with nasty looks and threatening profanity.) Here I thought it was a March for Equality or something. That’s what I get for getting all my sports news from Ladies’ Home Journal.
It reminded me of an experience I had a few years back... Picture it: Sicily, 1912 (Manhattan's Upper East Side, 2003...) I'd just moved to New York and quickly became the gay mascot to this group of hot chicks. We'd been hanging out about a month, and one drunken night we all eventually wound up in the limo of a terribly nice, terribly tall gentleman by the name of Robert Clemmings (or something.) I remember my mother called my cell as we were making our way to another bar, asking where I was. (As I said, I'd just moved to the city, so she still worried.) "Don't worry about me, Ma," I assured her, "I'm totally wasted and I just got into the back of some strange guy's limo. Everything is copacetic." When she demanded more information, I asked Robert, "who the hell are you and what the hell do you do? My mother needs to know."
Turns out his name was actually Roger, and he said he was a pitcher. Well, needless to say, the two of us had very little to talk about beyond that point. All my t-shirts say "catcher." But it was still a lovely evening.