BRADENTON, Fla. — I was in a juvenile mood on Sunday and I can’t explain why. Within an eight-hour span I was responsible for:
1.) Taking a rolled up newspaper from a colleague’s back pocket and spiking it onto the clubhouse floor.
2.) Kicking dirt onto three fellow reporters whose only crime was wearing nice shoes.
3.) Throwing sunflower seeds at a Yankees P.R. flak who was minding his own business while reading daily clips in the dugout.
4.) Giving a good enough fake body flinch while in mid-conversation to convince another reporter — who had his back turned to batting practice — that he was about to get smoked by a wayward baseball.
Though each move came straight out of the fourth-grader’s playbook, each clearly served its purpose, because by the end of the day I found myself entertained by these random acts of juvenile behavior.
Which I guess explains why my workday ended with an impassioned debate about the interpretation of an important childhood rule: calling shotgun.
Because the Yankees played in Bradenton today, several of the writers agreed to carpool. As we walked toward the car, I called shotgun and enjoyed an easy ride in the front seat. Good times.
Now, fast forward to the afternoon. Thinking that I had already established my front seat rights for the trip, I began my walk back the car looking forward to settling back in for the ride home.
That’s when my douchebag buddy called out “shotgun!”
What the fuck? By calling shotgun earlier, I thought I was set for the whole day trip. Because this guy grew up in some communist stronghold somewhere, he interpreted the rule to apply only for single rides. Total bullshit.
Of course, these matters tend to come back to the driver, who always holds the final judgment. Unfortunately for me, the driver in this case grew up in Missouri, where I learned it’s common practice for everyone to pile out of the covered wagon and reshuffle seats every time the horses need a shit break.
Obviously, after a childhood scarred by such nonsense, he ruled that shotgun needed to be called every time. This led to my final juvenile act of the day.
5.) Pissing on the back seat of my buddy’s spring training rental car and then blogging about it. Fuckers.