Yesterday I watched the final game of the 2007 World Series at Donovan’s Sports Bar on 3rd Road. The only other person in the newly opened restaurant was the Thai waitress filing her nails. She had no interest in baseball and even less in a farang nursing a cappuccino. I was on my own, because while cricket might be as boring as baseball, the American Pastime is regarded with the same fervor most men hold for synchronized swimming.
ZERO.
The Red Sox’ 4-0 sweep of the Rockies was a snooze. Almost every game no contest. The Denver team played as if they had spent the 8 days waiting for the World Series in crack den. Conversely the Red Sox intensified their game like Miami cops ready to beat up a motorist with a broken taillight. Steroids work wonders on the winning gene. Ask any muscle-builder at Tony’s Gym on 3rd Road.
So hooray for the Red Sox. World Champs 2004 and 2007.
I left Donovan’s at the bottom of the 8th Inning.
At home I threw a baseball against my garage wall. 60 pitches slammed into the concrete before my shoulder ached from the unnatural exercise. None of my pitches broke the windows in the garage.
Not bad for a 55 year-old beer-drinker and that’s about as much baseball as you’ll find in Pattaya at 11 O’clock on a Monday morning.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
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