Deep Fried Love
By Dixie Fried

Stranded In The Jungle
I walked into my apartment after a long day of work, and I heard the familiar drone of words come out of the sports announcer’s mouth saying, "One ball, two strikes."
"Tim! What are you doing?" I screamed at my roommate. I had to sit down because I was hyperventilating. I was probably more surprised then he was when I reacted this way, but I was prepared to kill him if he didn’t turn the channel. Immediately. A few weeks later, I treated Tim to dinner at a really nice restaurant. Unbeknownst to me, there was a TV on behind me showing a baseball game (some sports guy was part owner). As I was speaking to him, he was looking over my shoulder at some guy sliding into third. The panic started rising in my chest. "That’s it…I’m going to leave."
"Calm down," he told me, annoyed. "I’m just watching the game."
I’ve always hated men who watch sports. I guess it has to do with my memories of holidays as a girl. Before dinner was ready, there was always some game on the television. Every uncle and male cousin would sit there watching, completely oblivious to their surroundings. After dinner, they would immediately run back to the television to watch the game. After a few years, the game was left on during dinner, as we prayed to God for our bounty and our ballplayers. I was the only girl around at these things, and I had no choice but to watch men fondle each other on a green field while America cheered them on. I had no one to play with, and no one would talk to me, or even look at me. I would look down at my holiday dress and shoes for hours until we could go home. Sometimes, I tried to change the channel when I thought they fell asleep, but they always caught me as I was reaching for the knob. Nothing changed as the years went by, and Christmases blended into Easters. As I got older, I begged to watch a movie or favorite television show. I looked around at the Italian men through a cloud of smoke and realized I hated them.
What is so compelling about men hitting or catching a ball? Why don’t sports fans go and play ball instead of sitting on their well-dented couches? If a woman watched soap operas as religiously as men watched sports, she’d probably be labeled a freak, a homebody, or a spinster. If she’d wave away anyone who was trying to speak to her, people would think she was a bit strange. There is no difference. I have no respect for anyone who has to watch every fucking baseball game of the season. Each game is roughly three hours long, and there are approximately 162 games in the season. Men who religiously watch baseball (or any other sport, for that matter) are spending 486 HOURS in front of their TV. And this doesn’t include the hours spent watching other games. This is 486 hours that could be spent making love, or kissing a beautiful woman, watching movies, or doing the 1000 other things that make life worth living. I like men. But I like my men to be exciting. And watching a man watch sports just doesn’t cut it.
One Saturday morning, my roommate invited me to a Yankee’s game. He was going with two friends, and for some reason still unknown to me, my mouth formed a Yes, instead of laughing outright. I’ve been to a ballgame twice, and both times I was supplied free tickets by my job. It was one of those days that I didn’t want to be alone; I was depressed. Besides, I liked his friends, Randy and Fred, who were coming as well.
When we rode the B train to Yankee’s Stadium, we were surrounded by hundreds of white guys–older guys and younger guys who were all excited about the game. They were exchanging statistics and talking about the players as if they were supermodels whose careers they followed by picking up every issue of every fashion magazine. This should have been a sign.
Randy pointed the way to where we were buying bleacher tickets. I’ve never sat in the bleachers, but I thought at least we’d be in the shade. We stood in line for 45 minutes, the sun beating down on us with a vengeance. It was about 95 degrees out, but luckily, I brought sunscreen, and kept applying it every fifteen minutes. A Rolls Royce rolled by. It was painted to look like the Yankee pendant. Who the fuck has enough money and is crazy enough to paint a Rolls Royce this way? He clearly only drove it by the stadium every time there was a game. And maybe, if they win the World Series, he’ll take it for a spin around Manhattan. As the car slowly drove by, there came a guttural scream, that traveled with the car, as all the men in line put their fists in the air as in some tribal dance and rejoiced to their god.
After watching the behavior of the guys in front of us, it dawned on me that they were drunk. The guys behind us were drunk and just about everyone else around us was drunk. It was 1 in the afternoon. They were pounding on garage doors like apes and screaming and cursing. Every once in awhile, someone would walk by, overcome with team spirit, and yell out for no reason. I felt like I was in a revival tent in the backwoods of Tennessee–only Jesus was wearing a pin-striped robe and grabbing his crotch every so often.
We fought the crowd to get to some seats. There was no shade, and the sun was burning my skin, no matter how much sunscreen I slathered on. The organ blared, and the game began. Each guy around me had four or five beers in front of him. I desperately wanted to go home, but I tried to deal with it.
Tim and his friends were cheering for the Yankees, but, unlike everyone else, were civil. We actually were having conversations and making fun of everyone else. But all around us, the circus was out of control. There was an exceedingly large number of men in their late teens/early twenties. They all had the same haircut and the same clothes on. They looked like they listened to KROQ. They were all trying to outdo each other by screaming and trying to rally everyone else into saying things like, "The Orioles Suck!" "So and so is an Asshole" and "Suck my dick!" I was appalled.
To make matters worse, because of the heat, almost every single guy in the entire stadium took their shirts off. There was pale, jiggling flesh all around me. Love handles were suffocating me. Sweat beads were dripping into Tommy Hilfiger pants and I was trying not to gag. I looked at the scoreboards, watching the innings go by slowly. I looked at the players, mentally willing them to strike out so I could go home sooner. I hoped the Yankees got their asses kicked so that these guys would shut the hell up.
A few rows down, a guy was wearing an Orioles cap. The guys around him were giving him dirty looks for a few innings, but after a case of beer, they started chanting "Take It Off!" and finally, one insecure guy poured his beer on the Oriole fan.
couldn’t believe how awful everyone around me was. These were the type of guys I always tried to avoid. I stay away from certain bars, restaurants, hell, even entire neighborhoods so I don’t run into these moronic, crew-cutted robots. What was I thinking? I paid money to be surrounded by thousands of them!! It served me right, it was my deserved punishment.
As the last out was caught, I made my way to the subway. I couldn’t wait to go home and finish the book I was reading.