Wednesday, October 20, 2004

Red Sox fan

We had a calm dinner and decided to see the end of the game at the hotel's bar. The place is filled with people from the "Fishery conservation" conference. Bona fide Red Sox fans who can rattle the stats on any player or comment on each and every single call from the umpires. I'm rooting for the Red Sox, testimony of several years spent in the Boston area and an affinity for the underdogs, but I am no baseball connoisseur. I would not be able to tell a ball from a strike if the little lights didn't come on the TV to let me know which one was which.
Surrounded by people who can (and do!) dissect the play, I try to blend in: I laugh at their jokes even if their meaning is not always clear, and I try to anticipate the mood of the play. Fist pumping if this is really good, arms to the sky when we are all disappointed, touching wood when the game develops and we are now afraid to lose.
It goes smoothly until one point when I fail to appreciate the play. I pump my fist claiming "Yeah!!!!" right after a short play. A polite silence greets my shout. I am exposed in all my ignorance of the rules or the game. I feel the weight of their despise in their look.


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