I don’t know if you’ve heard, but apparently there’s some sort of brouhaha about baseball these days. Rocco is spending hours in front of the TV and computer clapping maniacally and texting his fellow Yankee minions – even more than usual. It’s really cutting into my NCIS time I tell ya.
You see, Rocco kind of likes baseball…just a little bit…like I kind of like Twilight…except his crush on Jorge far predates my obsession with Edward and runs far deeper. I suspect if I whipped him up a pair of Jorge panties he’d wear them to bed.
His favorite shirt (other than his #20 jersey) is one that reads “I support two teams -the Yankees and whoever beats the Red Sox.” He’s made it his own personal quest to torment the Boston fans he works with. This isn’t a new phenomenon, he’s just got a bit more to gloat about this year…or so I’m told because I damn sure haven’t watched a single inning this season.
Our friend Sandy gets the worst of it. I think Rocco texts her at least twenty times each game with snarky insults to her beloved Sox. I like Sandy a whole lot, but she does sort of have it coming to her. I could care less about baseball, but I’m more likely to vote Republican than say a single nice thing about the most sinister place on earth. Seriously, pick a different team.
Sandy and Rocco have a wager each and every year over which team will make it to the…finals…or whatever the hell are they called. Maybe it’s the playoffs. I think there’s something about a series in there. Then again, maybe it’s as simple as which team won more games at the end of the season. Hell, I’ll ask Rocco when he gets home. Look, all you really need to know for the sake of this story is that if the Yankees are still playing baseball in November, Sandy has to pay Rocco $100 and vice versa. Stop badgering me to use the right terminology. Don’t make me pull out the cancer card, damnit!
Last year Rocco lost the bet. Ever the good sport, he happily paid Sandy her $100…via an envelope packed with crisp one dollar bills. I should point out that if I told you Sandy’s full name, you’d never believe she wasn’t a stripper; the name is just too good. People (and not just me!) tease her about her name, so she was a bit self conscious whipping out that big envelope of ones while buying coffee with her fellow stage hands. Rocco laughed for weeks over his own wittiness.
Rocco won the wager this year. He told me he was meeting Sandy between shows to collect his money and have dinner. I started plotting ways to spend our windfall (sarcasm, as if you had any doubts).
He gave me a call later that evening while the hippies were putting back on their clothes during the intermission. “How was Sandy?” I asked making small talk. “What’s the haul after you treated her to dinner and hit the Yankees store for playoff paraphernalia?”
“I didn’t use any of that money for dinner or the Yankees store,” he answered.
“Why not?” I asked curious. “I thought you had a system.”
She ‘forgot’ the money at the theater. I walked her back after we ate to pick it up. I can see why she didn’t want to carry it.”
“She had to one-up me and paid me with rolls of dollar coins.” I could hear him grinning. “They’re heavy as hell.”
“I heart Sandy! I want to be her when I grow up! Well, except for the stripper name thing.”
Seriously, I don’t see this ending well. By the time Rocco turns 40 he’s going to have a hernia from carrying $100 worth of pennies.