I was able to grab tickets to the Yankees Sox game not too long ago. It was an absolutely tremendous game opener with a triple from Jacoby Ellsbury silencing the booing crowd. I washed down my silent cheers with an ice cold beer. Yankees dominated, winning 9-3. And yes, it felt good. Sorry not sorry.
What’s more American than baseball, hot dogs, and a brew?
Hello from Mr. E and the Yankees Fan!
I reserve my hot dog consumption for only the most special of times — baseball games and the 4th of July. To put it simply, hot dogs are my kryptonite. I grew up eating Nathan’s dogs and cheese fries, spending some memorable childhood afternoons in its arcade throwing a skeeball or two, or 20. I cannot resist a good hot dog with spicy mustard and sauerkraut, so I tend to avoid those places where the the hot dogs are hanging out. Things got pretty difficult when I was hanging out in Vienna, which has würstelstands popping up at every corner. Things also get pretty dicey when I’m home in New York. Those damn hot dog stand temptresses call my name every time I run to catch the drunk train home to Long Island. Nevertheless, I try to keep my hot dogs special so I can relive my fond childhood memories of my cousins, sister, aunts and mom squeezing into a tiny uncomfortable booth. We inhaled our food, impatient race horses waiting for the gates to open to run wild in the arcade. To this day, I can still finish a hot dog in 30 seconds flat, conditioned to expect only great things to occur once I’m done.