I got home last night, set to watch the game. The Wife had tentative evening plans with a friend but they fell through. So I put her in the car and we headed down to Manhattan in search of food. We’d heard of a decent Thai place in Hell’s Kitchen so there we were, against all common sense, stuck in Friday night, stand-still traffic.

But we had John and Suzyn and the game. Masahiro Tanaka gave up a couple of home runs but otherwise pitched well.

We finally parked, got to the place, and had a lousy meal. But we were so hungry by that point it didn’t matter. And although our little adventure didn’t completely kick the funk out of The Wife’s mood, it didn’t make it worse either, and that’s nothing to sneeze at.

Afterwards, we walked up 9th Ave, right around where my mother used to come 40 years ago to the spice district to buy all of her dry spices, when we passed a small cigar store called NYC Fine Cigars. The door was open and the smell of cigar smoke rolled out onto the street. A group of men sat on chairs, puffing away. A TV hung from the wall and as we passed I caught Alex Rodriguez circling the bases. I poked my head in and asked, “Is this live?”

The men said yes, and suddenly, our forgettable dinner was made better. Didn’t hurt a moment later when we saw a skinny but hairy Hispanic man dressed in skivvies, a tie dye tank top, and a floppy woman’s hat, saunter past us, doing what looked like a cross between Tai chi and the Cha Cha. In his own world, doing his own thing, a glimpse of the crazy old days in a sea of tourists and freshly-scrubbed young folks.

We listened to the final couple of innings on the radio as we sailed up the West Side Highway and got home just in time to see Andrew Miller strike out pinch-hitter–and former Yankee, Jesus Montero–ending the night with a pair of merciless sliders.

Final Score: Yanks 4, M’s 3.

[Photo Via: Paper Blog]