I don’t want to live in Baltimore this week. I want to wake up in the city that never sleeps … even though my beauty sleep has been compromised trying to squeeze in these Yankees games.
We’re asked all the time about why we live here in Maryland if Ken announces for the Yankees. If someone asked me that question this week, I’d say, “How I wish we did live in New York!”
It’s been tortuous for the kids and me unable to physically attend the thrilling playoffs and World Series games – bummer. But alas, school dictates our schedule whether we’re a baseball family or not, so we’re forced to stay home. (Who invented school anyhow?)
It’s been worse for the kids, ages 13 and 17, because they don’t get to watch the end of the games since I make them go to bed, so they’re not too tired to get up for school. In their shared bathroom, I tape a little “Yankee Report” to the mirror so they can learn the score and the outcome as soon as they awaken.
Like many of you Yankees fans who are parents and/or work full-time, we all still have to get up early and scoot the kids out the door whether baseball season thinks it’s still summer or not. (Can you believe it’s November 3 and baseball is still on and hubby is not home yet?)
Watching the games at home isn’t nearly as amusing as being in Yankee Stadium. There’s no cotton candy vendor. No fun graphics on the big screen. No cheering alongside at deafening tones with everyone else wearing assorted Yankees hats, giving high-fives to perfect strangers when the Yankees score.
Maybe at least if I had a few New York friends here in Baltimore, I could invite them over for the final game or venture out to a sports bar with 12 HD-TVs and cheer aloud in something other than my pajamas.
I told Ken I felt sorry for him, John Flaherty and Bob Lorenz reporting on the Yankees from the studio – they’re not allowed to watch the game in person either.
At least I have these little individual packs of salted peanuts in the pantry.
LET’S GO Y-A-N-K-E-E-S! I need a little sleep.
By Mrs. Singy
Thank goodness the Yankees were visiting Baltimore the night before Orioles’ Opening Day because our house alarm sounded at precisely 2:54 a.m., causing Ken and I to jump out of bed faster than two volunteer firefighters.
It doesn’t exactly help our fight-or-flight mode when the robotic voice on our system barks insistently, “INTRUSION! INTRUSION!” followed by a shrill BEEP-BEEP-BEEP, and then repeats the announcement over and over until we disarm it. Scary, because until we know exactly what set off the alarm, we imagine an intruder breaking in, and we feel extremely vulnerable (kind of how the Orioles feel when the Yankees are in town).
The dog begins wailing as the noise pierces his sensitive Rottie ears; the kids dash out of their rooms terrified out of their sleepy wits; and simultaneously, the phone jingles (the security company asks if we want the police dispatched) – all before we have rubbed the sleep from our eyes and can think coherently.
I whistle for the pooch to lead the way into the basement where the alarm system has indicated a point of disturbance, first pushing along Ken. (He’s bigger than me, and hopefully more muscular than the imaginary prowler.)
If the alarm goes off when he’s on the road with the Yankees, unfortunately I have to be the brave adult in the house; yet truthfully, it makes me a basket case to have to investigate. It’s happened – ask our neighbor Tommy who has received my 2 a.m. scaredy-cat call when a tray table mysteriously fell over loudly and tripped the alarm.
Years ago when former Oriole Al Bumbry was our neighbor, he came to Mrs. Singy’s rescue when the house alarm sounded. He found nothing but me shaking in my slippers, and offered to sleep on the couch the remainder of the night.
Ballplayers are so brave.
Announcers, too. So … Ken checks the basement slider, all is intact, and we figure the wind tripped the alarm. We return to slumber, however, mine does not come easily as I imagine all the nights Ken will be sleeping in hotels instead of in our room. Already I have the heebie-jeebies.
Couldn’t the Yankees play in Baltimore more often? After all, the Orioles are used to New York’s intrusions.