I am a collector of stupid shit. I feel this need to buy items that can only be described as nonsensical. The most nonsensical of all the items I own; a Randy Moss action figure. I was at Newbury Comics in Boston and there he was, in all his packaged glory, sandwiched between Tom Brady and Lawyer Milloy – which was odd considering Milloy at that point was playing for the Falcons. My friend gave me an eyebrow raise, in that way that only girls know how to give to other girls. It’s one small facial gesture that means, “Bitch please.” I gave her a shrug and grabbed the doll. I don’t even like the Patriots.
Wait. I’m wrong, I possess something even more nonsensical than Moss the Boss: a Matt Leinart rookie card. I should probably mention that it’s framed. I didn’t frame it. It came that way. So yeah. That’s a thing. In my house. Sometimes it doubles as a coaster.
On my desk at work there’s a tiny goalie. When he was purchased for me, by my father at a Canadiens game in 1993, he was Patrick Roy. Today he is Carey Price. I can’t be too far from something silly. It’s not superstition. I don’t think the Canadiens are going to win the Stanley Cup because I have this thing on my desk. When I accidentally broke the bat of my Derek Jeter action figure in 2008, I was well aware that wasn’t the reason the Yankees missed the playoffs for the first time in a zillion years.
There are the Batmans. One is Christian Bale, one is Michael Keaton and the other one might be Adam West. There are two Marilyn Mansons (goth and glam), a Riddler (Jim Carrey not Frank Gorshwin. Although, I would love a Gorshwin.), Edward Scissorhands, and my major league boyfriend, Andy Pettite. There are others but they would take the whole page to name.
A few years ago I had to be talked out of buying Pat Burrell at a Target in Philadelphia. Not actual Pat Burrell, although if you believe the Internet, he probably likes that sort of thing. It wasn’t a short conversation either. And plus, I hate the Phillies. Not my finest moment and I am very grateful for this friend for stopping me from dropping 14-large (that’s almost $15.75 in Canadian dollars!) on Pat the Bat. Although, this is the same friend who once signed up for a credit card to get a free Roy Halladay shirt, something that even I, collector of nonsense, laughed at.
When I found out April 21st was Edwin Encarnacion bobblehead day, I was like; yes, this thing needs to be in my house. So the boyfriend and I took the Rogers Centre. Usually for Sunday games we arrive at 1. There’s no point in arriving early. Do I really need to see JP Arencibia playing a quick game of warmup catch with Jose Bautista? They’re not shirtless. What’s the point. I kid. Okay, not really.
For the record, tickets were purchased for this game in advance of me finding out Encarnacion bobblheads were to be given out. I am an actual fan of the New York Yankees and try to see them play at least once per summer. We also go to one Jays game per month and never have I ever wanted to go early for swag. Don’t need a pink visor, thankyouverymuch. Do I need to get my picture taken with Ace? That’s a bigÂ “nope”. What I do need is a bobblehead.
Before I talk about the travesty thatÂ occurredÂ at 12:14pm on Sunday, April 21st, 2013, let’s quickly discuss the game. The Blue Jays won. They needed it. I would’veÂ preferredÂ their win not come at the expense of the NYY but c’est la vie. Vernon Wells got booed. Lyle Overbay didn’t. Weird. If I was a booer – which I’m not even though I’m from Montreal, the city by the booooooooooo – I’d totes boo both of them.
Brett Lawrie jacked a two-run double. JP Arencibia crushed his 7th dinger. Adam Lind was walked. Josh Johnson looked good through four then misplaced the strike zone. Munenori Kawasaki (the nu-Jose Reyes) scored on an Edwin Encarnacion double. None of them took their shirts off.
But does any of it matter? It was supposed to be the day that I got a bobblehead. Instead it was the day the Blue Jays didn’t get swept by the Yankees.
We missed the bobbleheads by five lousy minutes. It was horrible. The boyfriend didn’t care. He’s mature. In the bathroom before the start of the game, as I was drying my hands, a child came in with her mother. The little girl was sobbing. “I want a bobblehead!”, she gasped between hiccupy tears. I know, child. Me too.
Leave a Reply
- Thanks from B&C by Landon Evanson
- World Series Champions 2014: A Book Review by Elisabeth Galina
- Let’s Play Make-Believe by Peter Robins-Brown
- The Red Sox: 885 Pounds of Baloney in a 500-Pound Bag by Patrick Smith
- Chris Davis and “The Devil” by Patrick Smith