THE BRO-MAGNET by Lauren Baratz-Logsted Page A

corporatization of America. The Yankees always get everything. I hate to be such a girl about things but it’s so unfair.
    Yes, I’m sitting here in an eight-hundred-dollar seat at fucking Yankee Stadium on Thursday, April 16, I’m surrounded by a halo of lawyers, and they’re all wearing suits.
    Steve had a ticket sent to my home, so I drove in myself and arrived after Steve and his other two guests, which turned out to be two out-of-town lawyers.
    “Monte,” the one said, holding out a hand with perfectly manicured fingernails, “Carlo.”
    “Um, Danbury,” I responded, figuring it was some sort of weird lawyer greeting as I shook his hand, “Connecticut.”
    “No, Jersey,” he said. “I’m from Jersey. Monte Carlo’s my name.”
    “That’s pretty funny,” I said.
    “Is it?” he said wonderingly.
    Then Steve laughed. “Huh. It is. I never thought about it that way.”
    The other lawyer’s name turned out to be John John III. I don’t know why people do that to their kids. Giving someone the same first name as their last is bad enough to do once but then to go on to do it for the next two generations? And this guy’ll probably do the same thing to his kid, but this time I was careful not to say anything that might make it sound like I was laughing at someone’s name since Monte Carlo was still looking kind of sensitive.
    “We call him JJ Trey,” Steve leaned into me for the whisper.
    Whatever.
    So now I’m sitting here in the front row, surrounded by my halo of lawyers, they’ve all got their suits on since they came straight from work, ties loosened now, expensive jackets draped across their laps. And what am I wearing?
    My usual going-to-the-game uniform: relatively clean T-shirt, jeans, work boots. I left the Mets cap at home. Who says I’m not sensitive to the people around me?
    Yes, I’m sitting here, blowing off work on a gorgeous spring day, right in the front row, right behind home plate where I’ve never sat in my life, Steve at my side, Monte Carlo and JJ Trey behind us, and I could care less. Because it is, in the end, only the fucking Yankees.
    “What do you want to eat?” Steve asks. “Whatever you want – eat, drink – it’s on the house, comes with the tickets.”
    “I’m thinking sushi,” JJ Trey says from behind us, “with an ice-cold Stoli.”
    “Something Italian,” Monte Carlo says. “Maybe calamari or a nice risotto? And a Rob Roy.”
    Geez, where am I, the ballpark or a restaurant in Manhattan?
    “Johnny?” Steve says. “What would you like? Really, anything you want. A porterhouse steak? Shrimp Caesar salad? Maybe a nice bottle of champagne to go with it? Some Veuve Cliquot?”
    “I don’t know,” I say. “I was thinking more like a couple of hot dogs with mustard and a Bud.”
    Steve is crestfallen. “I’m not sure if you can get that here.”
    Fucking Yankees. Fucking Yankee Stadium.
    * * *
    It’s the third inning, the score is Who cares? to Who cares? and I decide to take a little walk, see if I can scare up some hot dogs and real beer.
    And what do you know? It takes me a while, I have to take the escalator up to the cheap seats and walk halfway around the stadium, but eventually I find what I’m looking for.
    As I head back to my seat, coming up behind Steve and Monte Carlo and JJ Trey, for the first time I notice the people sitting to our right, two of whom are women. Both women are wearing business suits, the one right next to our box looking kind of sloppy in hers, while the one a little further down looks crisp and not at all like any woman I’ve ever seen at Shea; I mean Citi Field. She hasn’t even removed the jacket of her suit, despite that it’s turning into a very warm day. Her hair is a pretty auburn color, thick and up in some kind of twist. She happens to turn briefly as I approach and I notice that her skin is like china – I hope she doesn’t burn in this sun – and that her eyes as they meet mine are an incredible shade