"Youze guys suck!"
The Bronx baritone had been bellowing through the nosebleed section all evening long. High above the historic baseball field, the monotonus mantra dominated the immediate area, reducing the din of the paid event to a background ambience.
"Hey, ya bum ... who told ya you could play?"
We were sitting three rows below the constant critic, directly in the line of fire.
"What's with that guy?" I asked my buddy, Joe, "along with the earache, I'm getting a stiff neck from turning around."
"So don't turn around," answered Joe, while keeping his eyes on the action of the prancing ants far below.
"But he never stops," I shouted out between a "youze" and a "suck".
"Nope, he never does," said Joe, while placing a small, silver pair of opera glasses to his eyes.
"Lemme tell you something ... "
"That guy is always here, always!" Joe turned to look at me eye-to-eye. He still had the glasses up to his. "Every time that gate opens downstairs, our friend is first in line. Every time the lights go on at Yankee Stadium, you can see that guy, in that seat, yelling the same stuff. Word is he hasn't even missed a home game since 1978 and he's always vocal, loud vocal. I'm tellin' ya, he's a tradition, a friggin' fixture."
At that Joe returned his attention forward.
"Yerall a buncha bums!!!"
I grabbed Joe by the arm and pulled him back. "But it doesn't make sense," I shouted.
"This isn't a game, it's a concert! That's not the 'Red Sox' down there, it's 'The Rolling Stones!"' "Well, " replied Joe, halfway to irritated, "Ya gotta admit... they ain't what they used to be."
"Hey Jaggah ... I got your satisfaction right here ... "