The Futility of Rage

There’s no crying in baseball. Everybody knows that. There’s no crying in baseball unless you live in the same neighborhood as the stadium, and a drive down the street that normally takes less than a minute suddenly turns into a never-ending journey filled with pain, remorse, and sorrow.

You can always toot your horn.

Trust me, everyone else does.

I am sitting in my car because I need to get milk, lactaid, if you must know, because we’re done with the dairy. I am sitting here imagining that if I sawed off my arms and both legs with a broken pencil and then crawled to Vons on my bleeding stumps, I would have been back and forth twice already.

Toot toot!

Ok, people keep it going. Keep the flow steady.

An entire family wearing Dodger blue t-shirts walks by carrying lawn chairs, coolers and a picnic table.

Come on!

Oops, and there’s little Gran pulling up the rear with the hibachi grill in a wagon.

I text all three of my children. “Nice knowing u. Good Luck with everything”.

Dar texts back, “Don’t forget toilet paper. “We R out”.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

By the time I see the guy directing traffic, I am fully ready to commit a medieval violent act. This guy. What good is he? How dare he try to be authoritative right now. He’s wearing shorts! I glare at him for so long that I get exhausted. Now I feel bad. He’s not even a cop, really. He probably teaches woodworking at a magnet school in Simi Valley. He’s doing this because he loves baseball. He probably gets a season pass in exchange for trying to maintain order in the middle of utter chaos. He is serious with his hand signals though. He is not messing around with his hand-signals and his facial expressions. Bless him. Now I feel bad.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! Come on shitass!

I can’t help myself. I’m not a good person. Even though I feel for this guy, I try to sneak between the cones into a completely empty lane.

He’s got the hand up and the whistle going. He comes at me with his bull-dog face.

“HEY! You can’t wait?”

(I secretly love that he asks me this in utter disbelief rather than just slamming his hand down on the hood of my car and calling me a stupid fucking idiot, which is how we do it in Philly).

I roll down my window and lean my head out like a beautiful blond cheerleader, “Oh darn, I’m so sorry, I’m just trying to get home, I thought that lane was for turning”.

No you didn’t!

(How does he know I’m lying?) Yes I did! I’m sorry.

No you’re not.

(We have the following conversation while I slowly keep driving past the cones onto the empty lane like a tip-toeing Wile E. Coyote)

Yes I am really sorry.

No you’re not.

Yes, I am. I really truly am.

(Then, we’re yelling as I get further away) No you’re not.

Yes I am!

No you’re not.

Yes I am!

No you’re not.

I am. I really really am.

I can see him in my rear view mirror. He is smiling! He is chuckling, that devil. Look at him.  I love baseball again, I love the fam in Dodger blue, I love the granny, I love the traffic, I love everyone, I love the stadium and the green grass and the red and yellow seats, I love the cheering and the fireworks that I can see from my window, but most of all I love this guy for recognizing futility when the circumstances are asking for it. 

There’s no crying in baseball. And there's no crying in bad traffic. Amen.