My Worst Birthday Ever

The Yankees were unable to crack through against a pitcher who was handing out walks faster than a victorious politician hands out compliments to their staff. The smell of defeat hung in the air from first inning to last. The fat lady had one foot on the stage seemingly from the moment I arrived. But that is not what made this evening so desultory.

My two friends and I sat in section 216. Who knew that this was where so many fouls went to die? I would venture that by the third or fourth inning a full handful of swings of the bat resulted in the parabolic movement of balls I momentarily believed were destined for a resting place in my living room. One was captured by a fan two seats above me. Others landing so close I could virtually read their major league logo as they wandered by, seeming to mock me as they passed, and were snared with great exuberance by my neighbors. 

Each time this transpired I said at the top of my lungs " BUT IT'S MY BIRTHDAY". And each time it drew chuckles from those within ear shot. But not even a hint of recognition from the ones whose attention I was so desperately seeking. They clutched their prizes, each wholly oblivious to my entreaties. What kind of God does this to a person on their birthday?

And to turn deeply wounded into something far worse, when I looked at the scoreboard between the 5th and 6th inning and perused the scrolling list of greetings for those in attendance celebrating birthdays, my name was conspicuously absent. I turned to my friends in horror and asked if they had indeed done nothing to have the team commemorate my having survived so many years on the planet. Despite their assurances, the large screen continued to mock me until the last congratulations had faded from view.

So, I spent a most miserable night on the first day of my 72nd year of my wandering aimlessly around bumping into things along the route. Leaving the Stadium in utter defeat, I wondered what I had done to deserve such an inglorious fate.

The next morning I received an email from one of the "friends" who had been in attendance with me. He thanked me for the evening and advised that he was so sorry that I had been in the men's room when the most perfect birthday greeting appeared on the scoreboard giving me my full due. His tiny grin seemed to drip from the page.

Et tu, Brute.