“It’s like, I don’t mind when you write about sports, but I don’t think we need a freaking thousand words for like each Cardinal game. It’s like, I get it. Nate likes the fucking Cardinals. Move on already.”
––Devin, Local Pub Bartender and critic of The Nate Way
I just want to take this opportunity to thank Major League Baseball for allowing me to close out a bar while watching a baseball game. I know you extended this same opportunity to me in ’02, but it’s been a while since I’ve been allowed this rare privilege. So, to you, major league baseball executives (lower case for a reason), I say thanks for the 11 PM (Eastern setting the Standard Time) start. In the words of Holden Caulfield, “Sleep tight ya’ morons.”
Staying up until 2:30 AM on a Saturday night did not upset me in the slightest. In fact, that’s a pretty typical Saturday night for yours truly. But, to insure that I would actually get to watch the game, I had to hang out in The Local Pub. Now, here’s the problem with that.
Because of economics and proximity, the Local Pub is only a happening bar on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays—you know, those days college kids need to ensure that they wake up somewhere within the vicinity of campus. On the other nights, The Local is pretty much your typical lower-middle class bar in a working class neighborhood (or unemployment-check-cashing neighborhood, depending on how literal you wanna be, jerk). Because of this, Saturday night, there were only three regulars in there and seven or eight different varieties of freaks: the friendless, the goth, the too-smart kids, the too-stupid kids, the people who are so drunk no party we’ll let them in, a few lesbians and one fat guy trying to get lucky with two ugly chicks. No other bar in Tampa was this quiet on a Saturday night. But hey, at least I could watch the game without distraction.
When the Cardinals won, I had my own private celebration, which caused most of the freaks who hadn’t already spotted me, to spot me. Shortly after my “Damn Skippy!” (punctuated perfectly by my fist pump), some drunk kid tried to warn me about the dangers of driving after excessive celebration.
“It’s like your mind can’t focus on driving because all you can think about are your Louisville Cardinals,” he said.
“St. Louis,” I said.
“What about it?” he asked.
“Forget it, man. I’m outta here.”
“Man, don’t be a snob man. I like St. Louis. They got like, that big arch. Hey, where you going?”
Had the game been on at a normal time, I never would have met that crazy, misguided drunk. So perhaps, the fact that the St. Louis Cardinals started this game at 11 Eastern was a blessing in disguise.
And perhaps I spent last night rooting for the Louisville Cardinals.