The crime scene
And now for a story about throwing popcorn at strangers, verbal altercations with off-duty NYPD cops, and getting kicked out of baseball’s most tradition-rich stadium, all of which would make my mama shake her head …
I did not throw the popcorn first. I imagine I would start there if I were in a court of law retelling this story. I am civilized. I don’t waste popcorn. Hell, I don’t buy popcorn at ballgames.
I arrived at my first game at Yankee Stadium three innings late. The women I attended the game with pre-gamed and then during-gamed off-site. I did not consume alcohol before or during the game.
By the time we arrived in the Bronx, the game had no chance of being anything but a buzzkill for them. Blurry eyes, full hearts, can’t get drunker at Yankees Stadium – not unless you wanna throw your wallet in the Hudson at the end of the night.
So, I’ll skip ahead a few innings – past the part where my ladyfriend Kerry and I wandered around like exiles looking for a program, watched Alex Rodriguez strike out with the bases loaded (score!), and then found said program in the bowels of the stadium. We returned to our right field seats around the seventh inning, and even though the Yankees were losing to the Tampa Bay Rays everyone seemed in good spirits.
The chain of events that occurred next surprised me, excited me, confused me, and, above all, amused me. Who gets kicked out of Yankee Stadium on their first visit? This guy, apparently.
