I wrote about clueless baseball girls this week. You know, those pink-hat wearing ladies “scorned by the many true-blue female fans who know all the players on the Yankees and/or Mets roster (including the ugly ones) and the alphabet soup of baseball vocabulary (ERAs, HRs, RBIs, etc.). Walk into any sports bar during the next Subway Series, which begins June 27, and you’ll find gaggles of them, gyrating among clusters of buttoned-up fellas in baseball caps. The loathsome lassies will be perched at the end of the bar, nursing Bud Lights or vodka sodas and staring blankly at the flickering television screen—perking up, perhaps, when the rest of the crowd cheers for a game-winning play. They’re flipping their perfumed ponytails, sending a wave of feminine pheromones into the stinky sea of testosterone, Old Spice and sweat.”
I was a little mean in the beginning but I get to what makes baseball great toward the end.