Red Sox, part II

• Red Sox: 6
• Nationals: 4
• Sold: 11 cases of beer/25 peanut, Crackerjack

I'm sort of at a loss for who to root for here, honestly. I'm a homer by nature, always rooting for my town's team, and in principle as a beerman for the home team. Better for sales that way -- keep the majority of the people in the seats happy, and they throw money that much faster. But the talk about this series' attendance is true: the place has outdone itself every game in packing more people in than ever, and this is shaping up to be, in effect, a home series for the Sox. My best off-the-cuff guess is that at least two thirds of the people here are rooting for the 'visitors,' maybe three-quarters of them. So the latest Nationals loss came as another boon to the beer sales.**

I've gotten better at just about ignoring all that, and just moving that beer around, all the way up to 11 cases of it tonight. Just about the same as last night, but on a night that was far slower for everyone else. Showing up early and staying downstairs helped out plenty.

**Another reason to root against the Nubs was the asshole I had to deal with tonight. Brushed him with a Crackerjack bag, then immediately apologized with "Sorry, tight quarters here" and he looks me dead in the eye and says, "I don't give a shit if it is. I paid for this seat." Really pulling a domination thing. We went back and forth, with me protesting that it had been an accident, and him telling me I'm shitty at my job, and so forth, until he'd dragged the worst out of me and I'm telling him he's a boorish jerk and semi-intentionally dropping a bottlecap on his shoulder while serving behind him, to which he retaliated by tossing his apple core into my bucket. Really great self-control on both our parts. The woman behind him noted what a dickhead he was being, and said he'd told her son to "Shut the fuck up." I looked at the kid and he was about 12 years old, and wearing a kelly green Sox jersey. The dipshit guy was wearing a Nationals cap, and was apparently levying his loser's frustration on the kid. The worst person in a packed stadium, and he has to be rooting for my team.

The impulse is to clock the guy, especially when I'm caffeinated and hopped up on the energy of the crowd, but as a career move it leaves plenty to be desired. There's that old advice to the stage-frightened: imagine the audience in their underwear and you'll be fine. The Beerman's adaptation: when dealing with a prick like that, imagine dumping your bucket of icewater on his head. Then don't do it, and run off and serve everyone else.