October 26 – Day 50: And You Thought That Irish Play Was Long …

As I figured, Friday was crummy enough that my best option was to stay in and rest up.

This whatever I’ve got keeps running an odd course. At times, I feel perfectly fine, with no congestion and a decent voice. At others, I’m a snot factory with some chest congestion and a raspy voice. It just won’t resolve itself in one way or another.

I had a lot of television stacked up, so I had enough to do to keep me occupied while I caught up on my writing. I thought about taking a nap, but kept putting it off until about 4:45, when I realized I really had to at least try to close my eyes for a few minutes. I napped until just after 5:00, then woke up and got myself together to leave for the show.

I bundled up, stopped at Starbucks, and went on my walk down St. Marks to the 6. Just after I crossed 1^st Avenue, though, I saw something I’d somehow been missing for the last few weeks. The St. Marks Taqueria (which I had noticed; just not the important part) was absolutely plastered with banners supporting the Dodgers (they even have blue lights strung outside). With my quick powers of ratiocination, I realized this must be a Dodger-friendly bar, and I was determined to hit it on the way home to watch as much of the game as I could (little did I know what that would ultimately mean … ).

With my chest congestion, I’d been taking Mucinex to try to break it up, mainly because I had no idea what shape my voice would be in for the show. Goebbels and Gutman would probably be okay, but I gravel it up for Kraft, and there was no telling how that was going to come out. With all that in mind, I was pretty quiet before the show. I felt mostly okay, but didn’t want to take any chances.

As it turned out, it really wasn’t a problem. I did feel a little catch in my throat when I began, but never really ran into anything that gave me trouble. The performance felt good—bright and fast—and the audience response was pretty good. Overall, it was a pretty successful evening. It was made moreso by the pastries I’d bought at Veneiro’s to take to the show. Veneiro’s is an Italian bakery on 11^th that has been in business since 1894, and makes superb pastries. I’d intended to buy an assortment of cookies for the show, but the clerk had filled the box with cream puffs and cannolis, so I was “stuck” with those. (They were delicious.)

As usual, I was following the game during the show, and in spite of my interest, I figured that if anyone was going to do anything after the show, I’d join in. No one did (as I passed through the theatre bar, there was really no one there but the cast from the other show—and they’re always there …--and the trio), so I went down to the 6, got off at Astor Place, and made my way to the taqueria.

I stepped in and it was jam-packed to the point where I had no idea how big the place was; all I could see was Dodger hats and jerseys, which was a very pleasant sight. I found a place by the wall across from the bar (which has two big-screen TVs behind it—along with at least one more screen on the other side [which I didn’t see until much later] and a giant screen in the back) and started watching. While I could see the screen with no trouble, I was so close to the door that every time someone came in or went out—and it happened a lot—sometimes with the same people going back and forth and in and out like cats who couldn’t make up their minds—that I’d get hit with a blast of cold air. I eventually moved farther inside, but ended up right under an air-conditioning vent, which provided a constant blast of cold air right on my neck (which was no likely to do my cold any good).

 This guy in the brown jacket kept sharing his "expertise" with the guy next to him, so he kept getting his head right in my way.

When I arrived, the game was in the 6^th inning, and the Dodgers were leading 1-0. I didn’t figure that would last, but I didn’t count on the inability of the Dodger offense to do anything. The bar was loud and noisy and rooting hard, and when the Red Sox tied it in the 8^th, devastated and angry.

As the game kept going, the crowd stayed enthusiastic, but were also provided with more and more opportunities to drink—which they did, with gusto.

Eventually, I was able to move closer to the bar and get away from the vent, but I was still standing. The game kept going and going and going, though. I arrived about 10:30, but we soon hit 11:00, then 12:00, then 12:30, then 1:00.

As it got later and later, people started to leave. Even though the next day was Saturday—or, to be more precise, it was Saturday--people could take only so much. Eventually, a seat opened up at the end of the bar, right next to the TV, but I would have had to have squeezed past a bunch of people to get to it. I told myself if the game got to the 14^th, I’d take the seat. The Red Sox went ahead in the 13^th, and it looked bad, but the Dodgers tied it in the bottom of the inning, and we kept going and I took the seat. Since I’d had only my usual peanut butter toast for breakfast and a couple of pieces of pastry I’d brought to the show, I was pretty hungry. I’d hoped to order something from the kitchen, but the joint was so crowded, there was no point trying. When I did sit, I ordered a whiskey and a bowl of chips and salsa, which have rarely tasted better.

1:30, 2:00, 2:30, 3:00. The game kept going and going, with both teams showing the same offensive ineptness, and even though the crowd had thinned considerably, there had been so many people to begin with that it was still substantial.

We went through the 14^th, the 15^th, the 16^th and the 17^th innings, and still no scoring, and none really in sight. Even though it was god-awful late, I wasn’t really tired; my biggest concern was whether I’d get enough sleep before the matinee on Saturday. Well, that and the large—very large—drunk in a Dodger cap who was muttering and talking and whom I soon realized was talking to me. He said something about “Some people love the Red Sox and some people hate the Red Sox. Do you love the Red Sox?” I not only told him no; I added that I’ve been a Dodger fan since the 60s. (I guess my making noise about the Dodgers all night had eluded him.) Some people around him reassured him that I was all right, and he calmed down. I was lucky, though. If he had decided to make trouble, he was big enough and drunk enough that he could have done some serious damage to me. (Although, given the speed with which the owner clamped down on an extremely minor situation the next night, he might not have gotten too far.) He started talking to me in a more conciliatory tone about something, but between his state and the overall loudness of the bar, I couldn’t understand him.

The game, as is well-known by now, was one of the longest in major league history, and the single-longest in World Series history—it even lasted longer than the entire 1939 Series by itself. We got to the bottom of the 18^th, and 3:30, and Max Muncy hit a laser shot to left field with win the game. The bar went crazy, the bartender shut off the TV sound and put on Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.” (which is played after each win at Dodger Stadium) and started to pour out shots. I was tempted until I saw it was tequila, so I left and was surprised to discover it was actually drizzling, and I had neither a hat nor an umbrella. I happily walked home in the rain, took off my wet coats, and was still so wound up that I couldn’t get to sleep until 5:00.