Idiots Write About Sports

I’ve got to start taking my camera to games. At Thursday night’s game — you know, the one where the offensive juggernaut constructed by Billy Beane managed more than one hit — the right field bleachers where I was sitting were packed with this gaggle of teen-aged girls, and…

Why are you looking at me like that? You seem to be implying something. Look, will you let me finish the story before you start jumping to conclusions?

So like I said, there was this group of teenaged girls — probably high school age, maybe just out of high school — and they were wearing these shirts…

Goddamnit, get back here. There’s no reason to call the police in on this matter. This a perfectly innocent story.

Now as I was saying, before you started adding me to the Watch List of your Citizens United Against Perverts neighborhood group, this group of a dozen teenagers clearly hailed from Somewhere Other Than Oakland. Judging by the accents, I’d wager it was east of the Mississippi and south of the Mason-Dixon line. The point is, they were clearly there as some sort of trip out west that included a not-entirely voluntary visit to the Oakland Coliseum. I gathered this from overhearing snippets of conversations that sugested a lack of familiarity with the personnel from either Oakland or Los Angeles of Anaheim or, indeed, the rules of baseball. (“Who’s No. 33? He’s cute.” “The outfielder’s first name is Vladimir? That’s a weird name.” “Did the red team just score another point?”)

Anyhoo, the gaggle of girls decided to commemorate their visit to the Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum Complex by buying A’s T-shirts. (Lew Wolff thanks you for your generous support, girls, and invites you to buy some kettle corn for the long drive home.) More specifically, they bought those t-shirts that are designed to resemble baseball jerseys, with the player’s name and number on the back. And even more specifically, they snapped up the jersey t-shirts of players who, I’m guessing, are catnip to the ladies. Lots of Zito and Swisher and Street shirts. The occasional Crosby or Haren shirt. And one lone girl sporting a Jason Kendall jersey.

Say what now?

I’m still trying to wrap my brain around that — the sight of a lonely No. 18 amid the 75s and 33s and 24s. Maybe the girl is an iconoclast of sorts. Perhaps she admires neatly trimmed beards. Or maybe she’s not as bothered by weak, rally-killing grounders to third like some people are.

I like to tell myself she bought the Kendall jersey because she’s prone to strange outburts and violent rages. It’s the romantic in me.

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