Frodo in Mordor

Corrie, living out a childhood dream. She owes me a maple tart!

Corrie, living out a childhood dream. She owes me a maple tart!

Corrie, my best friend and die-hard Yankees fan, more or less guilted me into going with her today to the Yankees ticker tape parade in New York. I’m a Boston fan myself, so naturally the situation presented a serious moral conundrum. Do I be the good friend and help make it possible for her to enjoy celebrating with her stupid Bronx Boys, but in the process commit a serious betrayal of my own team. Or do I play the part of any sensible Red Sox fan and sanction any recognition of such an abominable event, but in the process dash a childhood dream of my good friend. I mean, Romeo wouldn’t have accompanied Juliet to a Capulet house party, right? Well, I guess he did sneak into a ball, but when he got caught things started getting ugly. OK, so it’s a flawed analogy, but I suppose the bigger question is, why would I, a loyal Red Sox fan, be friends with a Yankees fan like Corrie? Someone firmly entrenched in the enemy camp. Someone who even

publicly professes admiration for the pudgy-cheeked, insolent Derek Jeter! Indeed, this is an excellent question, and particularly trenchant considering today’s traumas.

Well, after much soul-searching I arrived at the anguished decision to indeed accompany Corrie into the lion’s maw, but only while wearing my Red Sox cap, maintaining at least a semblance of loyalty to my team.

So at 8:14 this morning, I filed grimly onto the train at Southeast Station, already surrounded by dangerous numbers of pin-striped zealots. Many of them looked like they were still in their single digits, so I figured I could take a good number down with me if it came to a rumble. Inexorably, the train made its way into the heart of the city until we terminated in the bowels of Grand Central Station. As we navigated the subways through Shelob’s lair, I wondered if Corrie were playing the part of Samwise or Gollum…

We emerged on Broadway near the brass bull, and I was immediately swept up by a sea of revelers. I was definitely somewhere very close to Mount Doom, and hopelessly overwhelmed by tens of thousands of Steinbrenner’s orcs. What happened next wasn’t very pretty.

For over two hours I endured the alternating tortures of a Yankees gloat fest and incessant heckling. Never in my life have I had so many people swearing at me, taking my photo, filming me for youtube mock-clips, or throwing random objects at me (rolls of toilet paper, plastic bottles, etc). I knew I had it coming, but if I was gonna be at the enemy’s parade, I had to at least be true to my team, right?

In the end, I managed to make it out of Mordor alive. I even fared better than reports I later heard of another equally-foolhardy yet less fortunate Boston fan who got punched in the face. The worst thing that happened to me was a solid hit on the side of my head by a full roll of toilet paper. Definitely preferable to somebody’s knuckles! It was, however, quite the adventure.

So why again did I subject myself to this sort of torture? And what about that 800-pound gorilla question I referenced earlier: why exactly would I be good friends with a Yankees fan? I guess all I can say is, she makes a mean chocolate mousse cake! And opera cake. And maple berry tart… Corrie is a pastry chef, and I guess the way to a Boston fan’s compromise is through pastries.

Otherwise, friendships between feuding families just don’t work well. It didn’t for Romeo and Juliet anyway.

3 Responses to “Frodo in Mordor”

  1. Will Turner Says:

    Kenny,
    I’ve got to hand it to you. Don’t know if I would have the gumption to wear my faded Yankees’
    cap to a Red Sox championship parade…… God forbid the chance would even arise !
    Thanks for accompanying my daughter. I hope she rewards you with her sweet talents.

  2. Ken Says:

    Ha, yeah these things can get dangerous, eh? It was a fun adventure though, and I was happy to go, insults and all. Corrie rewards me more often than I deserve!

  3. Mark Says:

    Traitor.

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