...or, "why despite -- or, perhaps, in spite of -- questioning, to no apparent end, the potential of what you had formerly regarded as your playoff-bound baseball team and, subsequently, your own worth as a human being and, furthermore, the very point of what, at this point, has become a relatively dubious prospect: your own existence, there is still, even in this darkest of hours, fun to be had at the expense of some of baseball's most annoying fans."

true to form... the incident began innocently enough.

i had somehow clawed myself out of the pits of hell that, for the most part, constitute the entirety of los angeles and, in spite of an obscene and entirely unnecessary amount of traffic on the 405 south, eventually found myself in what was, at the time, arguably a local sports bar -- though, in hindsight, more of a thinly-disguised high-dive -- with my friend corona kate.

but, as is my wont... i digress.

corona kate and i had set up camp in the outdoors smoking area, as per our usual -- mainly because corona kate cannot have a beer in one hand without having a cigarette in the other, and vice versa -- but also because the red sox - indians game was on all five of the televisions inside the bar, and i could not, at that particular moment in time, bear to watch anything even remotely related to baseball.

for the longest time, we were the only two people outside on the patio. but, as is always the case with bars, that -- given many people's penchant for lighting up the minute they consume the smallest amount of alcohol -- changed.

in the midst of a conversation concerning the finer points of aristotelian philosophy (read: whether hollywood is responsible for creating the monstrosity that is currently britney spears), corona kate and i were rudely interrupted by a guy sporting what can only be accurately be described as, much as i am loathe to use los angeles terminology, a "faux-hawk," and who wanted to know if either one of us had "a flame."

"a flame?" i said.
"a lighter," he said. "whatever."
"yeah, i've got a lighter," corona kate said. she handed it to faux-hawk, who used it to light his cigarette, and, surprisingly, handed it right back.
"so i'm kind of upset right now," he volunteered, exhaling a cloud of smoke that was altogether too near to my face for my liking.
corona kate, being the nicer of the two of us, asked, "why?"
before i could make some witty remark regarding growing up in england, or the years of therapy my friend had to go through on account of his not confronting his homosexuality at an earlier age, he said, "my team is tied with a team that is not even worth our time."
corona kate, who, for the record, knows so little about sports that she does not even have the slightest idea about when they are played during the year, asked, "what team?"
"the boston red sox."
"has football season already started?" i said.
he gave me a withering look. "the red sox are a baseball team."
"oh," i said. "my bad."
"who are the red sox playing?" corona kate asked.
"the indians," faux-hawk said. "we're tied at the moment. six to six... which is unacceptable."
"so the red sox are, like... a really good team, then? baseball team, i mean," i added hastily.
he stared at me. "something like that, yeah." he turned to corona kate. "your friend doesn't know much about baseball, does she?"
corona kate, being slightly drunk at this point, in addition to being -- for some unfathomable reason unbeknownst to me -- obviously attracted to faux-hawk, said, "well, i could have sworn i've heard her talk about baseball before... but maybe not. maybe it was someone else. anyway, i knew that the red sox were a baseball team..."

[for the record -- she most definitely did not.]

"...of course... i mean, i grew up with baseball."

[again, for the record -- she most definitely did not do this either.]

"good to know," faux-hawk said. "so maybe you, at least, can appreciate the full extent of my disappointment in watching a game like this one."
"if she had any idea how overrated the red sox, and, as a general rule, teams from the AL east are, especially when contrasted with much more deserving divisions, she wouldn't," i said.
he started. "a minute ago you had no idea that the red sox were a baseball team."
"i lied."
he stared at me. "interesting. so you're obviously not a red sox fan..."
"if by wearing a yankees hat in fenway during a yankees - red sox game in my not-so-recent past, then... yeah. i think it's fair to say i'm not much of a red sox fan."
"you're either incredibly stupid or incredibly bold to do something like that."
"let's call it the latter, for the sake of my abstaining from causing any sort of physical altercation."
he leaned back in his chair. "fair enough. so what, then? yankees fan...? i don't detect any accent."
"namely because there is none," i said. "i'm not from new york. i was born and raised in san diego."
at that, he burst out laughing. "padres... right. a true baseball fan."
"oh, that's right," i said. "i forgot. this is the part where you find out that i'm not a baseball fan, because i'm a padres fan, which obviously precludes me from being a baseball fan, as the padres as a ballclub are so dismal that they can't even be raised to the ranks of the... oh god. what is the word i'm looking for...? talented...? no. maybe not. competent...? no, that's not it, either... oh, i've got it. the 'sure thing.' wait..."
i paused. "actually, i meant to use that word in an entirely different relation. i think i meant to use it with regard to the red sox. no wait, i lied... again." i stopped. "i think i meant to use it with regard to the rox... seeing as they're the only team proving. beyond a reasonable doubt, that they deserve to go to the world series."
he smiled. "cute. but baby, at the end of the day, your team overachieved, really. i mean, especially given that outing from hoffman..."
"over and done with," i said. "speaking of saviors, or, rather, closers, yours won't save you tonight, either. twenty bucks says that despite what kind of an inning, or innings, papelbon has, the indians break this wide open."
"they aren't using papelbon tonight," he said.
i laughed. "tell you what. i'll eliminate money from the equation, but still contend that not only will papelbon pitch in at least one inning, the indians will blow this thing wide open. because really, at the end of the day, i would gain far more satisfaction knowing someone's team better than he does, in spite of the fact that i cannot stand the team or, more importantly, the fans of the team in question... I'd love nothing more than to see some faux-hawked fuck proven wrong not only in terms of who the hell is "closing", or attempting to "close" -- which, for the record, will not be the case -- he won't be "closing" anything, as the score will remain tied -- but also in terms of your team, especially with regard to your bullpen, blowing it in extra innings."
"you're on," he said.
"on for what?" i asked. "being proved a certifiable dumb fuck?"
"your friend needs to learn how to check herself," faux-hawk told corona kate.
corona kate, who had been texting someone during this particular conversation, said, "what?"

within the next hour, not only had papelbon pitched -- two innings -- the indians had also, as predicted, managed to blow the game wide open, and trounce the red sox thirteen to six.

faux-hawk had retreated inside shortly after our conversation, but i managed to catch a glimpse of him later on, after the indians had scored three runs, making the score nine to six.

"woman's intuition," i called, raising my glass of IPA in salute.
"bitch's luck," he said, giving me the finger.

"