My brother and I walk into Citizen’s Bank Park. The place is electric. We have fortified ourselves with two $25 cocktails, so I have willed myself into an it-was-worth-it buzz.
Today it’s the Phillies vs. the Yankees. A team I love vs. a team I loathe. And so it’s funny that I would come to the game, considering the fact that I am the Philadelphia Phillies’ worst luck charm in North America. Throughout the early part of the season (i.e. before I returned to Philadelphia in late July), the Phillies were 10 games up in their division. They were unbeatable. They caught all the breaks. They were playing baseball like the 1927 New York Yankees.
Since my glorious return to the land of cheesesteaks and Amazonian humidity, that lead has been dwindled to 6 games. They have been unwinnable. They miss all the breaks. And they have been playing baseball like the sickly kids the 1927 New York Yankees hit homeruns for on demand.
So when I enter the Bank, I worry that I might be recognized as the hex, the unretractable whammy, the fat-headed voodoo doll on their doorstep; I am their Jobu. We get to our seats after buying $50 worth of drinks (aka 2) and there’s an elderly couple sitting next to us. They are Yankees fans. A Yankees fan base has surrounded us, a genial man with kids in front of us, and a jovial guy with his Phillies-rooting friend behind us. My brother wishes them all a life of doom and disaster.
Now, I am no neophyte to the hex and the in which its malignant effects can be mitigated. As I walked into the stadium, I hit the turnstile with my right index knuckle twenty-four times. I rubbed my right shoulder against two Yankees fans in order to rub my bad juju off onto them. I even muttered a ‘go yanks’ under my breath in order to trick the bad luck imps into going after the wrong allegiance.
My efforts prove worthless when the Yankees start out the game with a grand slam. Nick Castellanos may or may not give me the finger from right field. The stadium announcer resists the urge to order an all-out attack on my seat number. I slink down. I sip $9 of my cocktail. In an attempt to quell the bad luck monsters, we decide on a walk. Yes. We jump up and walk around the stadium, drinking in the atmosphere. Genuinely buzzed, I weigh up another cocktail against paying my month’s mortgage and decide that banks are known for their caring attitude towards individuals. By the time we have re-reached our seats seven innings later, the Phillies have clawed their way back, which makes sense because there are 18 of them out there. And we make the foolish mistake of retaking our seats. Cocky bastards. When it’s over, my brother tells the jubilant Yankee fans what they can do to themselves on their ebullient ride home.
We head to a pub and sit at the bar. I feel like everyone is looking at me. That’s the guy who caused the Phils’ loss. I hunker down and keep a low profile, ordering a beer and a shot. I don’t get the whiskey I want; I don’t deserve it. And though I really want dumplings, I get a sad pizza. The barman is a young friendly chap whose best days are ahead and whose only fault is that he has never heard alcoholic drinks ordered by finger-size. (He was marvelled by my order of ‘two-fingers of Jamesons’.) There are two women on my right, clearly enjoying a post-work cocktail. They chime in.
“I never heard that neither, Jeremy.”
My brother and I – longing for a world where things are right – begin calling the barman ‘Jeremy’. In this, we take after our family. My mom and dad find out a waiter’s name and by the end of our meal that waiter a. wishes they had never told them that name and b. are strongly considering changing their name to one unpronounceable in all languages except for the click languages of remote African tribes. There’s a pretty good chance those guys won’t end up at the Bonefish Grill on Bustleton Avenue. And even if they did, what are the chances they’d end up in click-clock-cli-cli-cli-click-click’s section?
We do this for an hour. Jeremy. Jeremy. Jeremy.
In the meantime, the ladies next to me have become animated in their conversation. I cannot – nor do I want to – make out anything they are saying. My brother and I are deep in family gossip.
“Jeremy, could we get another coupla-fingers of Jamesons?”
I hope that Jeremy has applied on-the-job learning and has the power to synonymize, but Jeremy squints at us and twists his lips into a Q.
“Uh,” he says.
“Jeremy.” my brother shakes his head.
“His name ain’t Jeremy, Jeremy. Yours is Jeremy, Jeremy.” The voice came not from Jeremy, but from the woman next to me.
Several questions line up in my head. These:
- What is happening?
- Who is this woman next to me?
- Why is she speaking to me in an angry tone?
- Why does this woman think my name is Jeremy?
- Who is Jeremy?
- What is the barman’s actual name?
- Can we please get our two-fingers of Jamesons?
- Are the dumplings still on the Happy Hour discount?
I respond.
“Sorry, do you think my name is Jeremy?”
“I don’t think your name is Jeremy, I know your name is Jeremy. And I know you been eavesdropping, too.” She then adds as if it’s the dirtiest word at the disposal of all languages: “Jeremy!”
“My name is not Jeremy.”
“Whatever! Jeremy! I know you. Denise told me all about you. Jeremy!”
An audible pause befalls the five of us as we welcome the discussion’s new character: Denise.
“I am not Jeremy. I don’t know Denise.”
“Ohh. Ohhh, no you did not just say that. You don’t think I know you! You work a hundred feet away from me. You think I don’t know you. Jeremy!”
“Can I show you my driver’s license?”
“I don’t want to see it.”
“I don’t live in this country.”
“Pbbt. Denise told me aaaaalll about you Jeremy.”
I have removed my license from my wallet. I hold it up. Given the woman’s tone and the clear unpredictability of her nature, mixed with the fact that she’s a few cocktails deep (measured in fingers or otherwise), I will not hand it over to her or put it down. The point becomes moot as she gathers her things and they leave.
“Bye Jeremy,” she calls over her shoulder. “Imma tell Denise all about you today.”
There’s a moment of silence after the women leave. The barman, my brother, and I stare at each other.
“So, what is your name?” my brother asks the barman.
“Craig.”
“Craig. Look.” I hold up my license.
“Okay,” he says. “A coupla-fingers of Jamesons coming up.”
We take this as a win. After this whole, terrible day, Craig remembers two-fingers. I take in a deep breath of satisfaction. Craig the barman turns back to me.
“Jeremy.”
