The Article Mike Valenti Wants You To Read
NEW YORK -- I am a man of the people, which is why I generously tipped the guy who shined my shoes in a suite near the home plate of Yankee Stadium. Actually, that's a lie. I didn't tip him. Why should I? He gets to be in the presence of me and my fellow masters of the universe. Maybe he'll catch success by osmosis, and that's tip enough. Someday, if he works hard, he can grow up to be like me: a man who enjoys a beautiful fall day by spending $1,200 of other people's money on a baseball ticket.
I am the American Dream. I drink wildly expensive French wine with my ballpark lunch and give half the bottle to the guys slaving away in the kitchen, because generosity toward the working man is a burden I carry with grace. I order a $60 glass of pregame scotch and throw the last swallow away, because backwash is for proletarian strivers.
I seek refuge in the Legends Suite from everyone's favorite prepositional phrase -- in this economy -- because here, the crash never happened. Look around. This place reeks of a bull market. Here, it is perpetually 2007, and we are all fat and happy (though not as fat and not as happy as we will be in a few innings).
The waiter comes to my seat, which is three rows from the field, right next to the Yankees dugout. I'm close enough to see A-Rod choke. My throat is dry from making small talk with commoners.
"I want a bottle of Dom and a bag of peanuts," I say.
