How Does It Feel To Shave Your Face For The Devil, Johnny? Opening Day, Part 1

Some days you wake up and you know the day is going to be righteous. Other days you wake up and start to head out and you have to accept that it is going to be a miserable day. And yet even still, some other days, you are set to have an awesome day as long as you can accept that the day is going to be peppered with douche bags and you just might be one of them.

This was the case on Opening Day 2009.

In the days leading up to Opening Day, the energy is palpable in our house. The television and radio are set to an almost constant selection of baseball. We talk baseball, eat baseball and sometimes we drink baseball. Yep, we drink lots and lots of...

Baseball.

The day was cloudy, cool and rainy, but that was okay. It was 11 degrees warmer than last year, the rain was tapering off, we had a canopy, tarp, grill, chairs, dogs, a cooler full of beer and our baseball loving souls.

We were waved into the lot where we would be starting this year off at, G29. If I forgot G29 for just a second, the trip back from the portapotty would be dangerous and littered with potential drunken encounters. As I got out of the car, the car next to us started to unload and right away I already knew, we were going to be tailgating neighbors to complete enemas. The problem with being a sports fan is that your chances of encountering some form of schmuck are pretty much at 100%. That's okay, it's not like they had Yankees jerseys on, but then again, they didn't have Royals jerseys on either.

As I let my future brother-in-law out the backseat, the kid next to us starts to pour his first drink, McCormack's and Amp, into his gas station cup. His buddy shouts at him, "Dude, it's not cool to be passed out before game time!" As I walked by in full fan regalia, I added, "Nor is it good to roll down the hill on your way to the portapotty and end up hugging it for the duration of the game."

Blank stare.

I shrugged and started to assemble my coozie/beer/chair/combo. Suddenly, a Yankee's jersey walks past us. "What the hell? Are you serious? You know you have no soul, right?" He keeps going. It's for the best.

Our fire is burning, the beers are flowing cold, tasting of can, and the mood is Opening Day madness. And then Juanca from the enema camp comes over. "Can you guys set us up with some tunage? I loaded up my iPod with AWESOME stuff, you know, Nugent, The Smith's, Nickelback?"

I let it slide. What? You know what I let slide. "I think we have some Smith's, if not, we have Joy Division, hold on." And as I check Jason's CD's I see that both of those are not in there. And then I see it. Nine Inch Nails - Pretty Hate Machine, guaranteed to please the douche bags.

And it did.

Our stadium has had a complete renovation since last year. The largest HD screen in the world can be seen from anywhere in the parking lot. The shiny, steel facade greets you with a sense that maybe, just maybe, our city is actually on the map.

We discuss what we can see of the stadium, we discuss the ass kicking we gave the White Sox, we toss jokes around about the bail money that we will need to gather for Jason when that beer gets tossed on Derek Jeter. I'm already wording the apology letter to Mr. Jeter in my head and then I remember, his bank account is all the apology that guy needs.

Juanca shows his face again, which is eerily like Gene Wilder, if Gene Wilder were a college aged good time having dipshit. "Hey so, we're totally going to see Nickelback. That's rock, right?" I let it slide the first time, I can't do it again. "That's as far from rock as it gets, guy."

"No, they're cool."

My sister pipes up as her fiance pulls his hat over his face to avoid the whole scene, "No, man, they aren't cool." "Let me guess, you liked Creed back in the day." I say it as a statement, not a question. And then I look at him, "Oh my God, you STILL like Creed, don't you?"

Juanca looks abashed, "Creed was cool. You know I listened for a minute." Again, my sister shakes her head, "No... Creed was never cool. I promise you that." With that, she and I head to portapotties.

Getting into the portapotty line, it's apparent we are the loudest and possibly drunkest fans there. As we laugh loudly at our own hilarity, like we always do, we hear the guy threeup in line say to the guy right in front of us, "Hey! You were supposed to stay and watch the grill!"

"Yeah, what the hell? You are such a self-centered asshole!" I lean over and tell him. My sister laughs like no one else bothers to, "Yeah, really. Not only did you not watch the grill, but now I have to stand further back in line." The kid busies himself with his text message as his friends roll their eyes at the drunk rowdies that are me and my sibling. We continue to chatter and laugh raucously at ourselves when the kid suddenly realizes that we're funnier than shit. And apparently, shit is funny. We stand there, entertaining ourselves and everyone around us with our beer in hand, one in pocket for the walk back to G29 when it suddenly becomes our turn to to go. As the kid heads into the head he turns around, "Enjoy your pee's and the game!" I shout back, "Yeah you too, and next time don't be such a douche, pee in the grill like a man!" He nods a, "will do!"

My sister and I meander back to the car where we hang and drink and chat with Jason's cousin who has found her way to G29. And then? Then it's time to head into the stadium. We grab beer for the walk in, passing the cans back and forth. As we go through security we lay our eyes on the new stadium for the first time. We hit the huge bathrooms, no wait for girls, huge wait for guys. Perfect.

My sister and her fiance head off to their standing room only and Jason and I head down to our seats. We sit down and as I'm marveling at the field, Jason nudges me, "Trade me seats, I can't sit next to these guys."

Yankees fans.

From fucking Nebraska.

So I settle in, apologize to them for what is about to happen and then Jason nudges me again. I look up and see it. With only about 20 rows and one overweight concession vendor busy with a sale in between us and the focus of Jason's gaze:



Derek Mother Fucking Jeter.