I prefer a world in which the assholes stand out (Spring Training part two)

Never Done: I went to Fort Myers! (Spring Training part two)

First, might I just say that swimming 1K first thing in the morning in an empty 25-yard, slightly-heated outdoor pool is so much better than doing it in a crowded, overheated 20-yard Brooklyn pool. So much better. Especially when you get to go spend the rest of the day day watching the Red Sox play ball in a tiny stadium. I could get used to this.

This is one of those posts in which I know what I did that I had never done, and I even remembered to say the Shehekhianu, but I have no idea what I am going to write about -- what from today will emerge as significant. So I am setting out without a roadmap ...

We got to the stadium early, with an inkling that they might not take batting practice the same way the Mets did, and it was true. We were allowed in early, but to watch them on the field, or to stand in the crush of people next to the dugout and ask for autographs. (If you are tall enough, you can accomplish both things at the same time, but not I.) I walked right up and got Terry Francona's autograph without a hitch, so I figured it was going to be easy to get others, but I was neither counting on the crush of the crowd nor the disinterest of the players. After a long while, I came out of the fray, with two autographs (the second from Adrian Gonzales) and a solid bruise on my hip, for the effort. I realized that essentially I missed seeing the Red Sox warm up so that I could take my chances getting some autographs, because I had never asked for autographs before, and I has wanted to know what that experience was like. Essentially what it feels like is that you're too busy documenting the event to experience it, or as Hallmark says, you're "Making Memories." I can say with confidence that autograph seeking is one Never Done activity I won't be taking up as a regular part of my life.

Later, when the game was about to start, a young woman sang the national anthem and colossally messed up the words -- not once, not twice, but she went down the slippery slide of mess up, and couldn't recover. In an instant, the crowd figured out to sing with her -- it happened spontaneously, us all starting at the same time, after the same mess-up, and together we held the young woman up as she completed the song. I don't know if this was primarily an act of support or of patriotism, but it touched a tender spot in me and made me weep. (In the moment I thought it was support; it's only in retrospect that I realized it could be patriotism.) But there was one guy -- and he happened to be three seats away from us -- who heckled the singer instead of singing along. I felt like someone had shot an arrow through my heart -- I was incredulous that someone would be so mean-spirited. I turned to Mickey, with tears in my eyes, and he said a most wonderful thing. He said, "You can only hear him because he is the only one. I prefer a world in which the assholes stand out."

And with that, I stopped paying attention to the asshole (Patience: Do not aggravate a situation with wasted grief) and I sat back, surrounded by thousands of other people with New England accents, and took in a Red Sox game on a perfect Florida day.