The "season" is upon us. Not quite “the season”* the Vanderbilts and Astors once enjoyed but rather the NFL season and the MLB’s post season tail. Men of all ages develop a spiritual relationship with couches and barstools across the city, transformed into wide-eyed little boys in a trance-like state in front of gargantuan TVs.
Even if you're fortunate enough not to have one of these boys on your couch with a death grip on the remote, every girl is forced to contemplate her status in society during The Season.
So what if we comprise 40% of the MLB fan base and are the primary consumers in the majority of American households, the commercials are still going to be for beer and men’s cologne, neither of which I typically consume.
Who can’t appreciate a 92 mph curve ball that miraculously finds the sweet spot on Damon’s bat? You don’t need testosterone to get an adrenaline rush. Granted, I may not have the same appreciation for all the crotch-fiddling that goes on during these games, but hopefully that’s not why my male friends watch either.
I don’t need facial hair to appreciate the excitement that comes with knowing your team may become the 2009 MLB World Series Champions.
Yet even if we watch enthusiastically in the local pub, no one wants us to talk about it. We’re just necessary décor so that macho men spending several days a week hugging each other in a dark bar are not accused of closeted homosexuality. We’re to be seen (preferably in something resembling a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader outfit) but not heard, even if (maybe especially if) we knows what we’re talking about (yep, some of us know what the infield fly rule is).
Usurping the language of punts, bunts, passes and bases is either an unwelcome invasion of a man’s world or proof that a gal is trying way too hard to be one of the guys. Rest assured, I’m not going to jump on a conference call tomorrow and open up by discussing Girardi’s choice to start Pettitte, no matter what happens tonight.*
Nor am I going to redesign my analogies to incorporate football references: “It’s like when the Giants went down to the Superdome* in New Orleans . . .” Yup, took about one day after the Saints crushed the Giants for this analogy to work its way into NYC corporate speak.
Although the colleague who’d said this hadn’t actually watched the game, the client was easily persuaded by the analogy between the defeat and our current negotiation posture. No matter how confidently I’d uttered the same words, it wouldn’t have worked. Everyone would rather listen to the clichéd and tired language that men use to describe their sports.
I’m not going to try to speak their language. Instead I am going to watch the game my way,* think of it my way and speak about it (or not) my way, even if absolutely no one listens, even you.
In the absence of any socially acceptable custom for a lady to discuss the game and wish her city’s baseball team luck, today I honored the Yankees by savoring the following for lunch:
—One hot dog frosted with a thick layer of French’s mustard and blanketed in a toasted wonder bread hotdog roll.
—One Coors Light® which I smuggled into work (not sure why it was in my fridge though—probably a guy left it there while watching a game Chez Penelope)
—Some cracker jacks (Halloween leftovers)
Cost: $1.20
Notes
*The Season is that period of the year during which the social “elite” hold debutante balls, dinner parties and charity events. In NYC, the “kick off” for The Season is considered to be the opening of the Metropolitan Opera in September. Among other fall events is the Central Park Conservancy’s annual Halloween Benefit Ball in October, at which The Editor-in-Chief of the Lunch Report was photographed while attending: http://www.studiofourb.com/Events/HalloweenBall09/10066919_ynMXg#695474601_6bRRm
*I will not hold back, however, from sharing my impressions of Mr. Girardi, whose sculpted face bears a disturbingly close resemblance to a hairless cat (see for yourself: http://bestiarumvocabulum.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/hairless_cat.jpg).
*As the largest fixed dome structure in the world, the New Orleans Superdome has hosted more Super Bowls than any other stadium. *A few years ago I brought some clients to a Yankees game. They were visibly shaken when I whipped out a pair of opera glasses to sneak a closer peek of Jeter. So what, I did get a close look.
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