The Jersey City Independent "

Remember that episode of Sex and the City when the ladies go to a Yankees game and they magically slip into the locker room and then just like that — Carrie has a date with the “New Yankee?” Ridiculous, right?

Well, maybe not … because maybe something kinda similar happened to me.

You see, a few years ago, my best friend Yvonne and I somehow randomly found ourselves attending a particular kind of professional sporting event to watch a certain New York based team play. Going to a game seemed fun, plus it was something new to do. Imagine, Yvonne and me — two rock chicks — drinking beer, watching a bunch of cavemen in uniform go at it.

But all it took was one game, and we got into the sport more than we would have ever imagined. We learned all the players’ names, their positions. We learned all the rules of the game. We closely followed the good-looking players and even bought their team jerseys to wear to the events. We hugged each other when our team scored. We lost track of how many games we had attended. Our friends didn’t really get it, and quite frankly neither did we. But it didn’t matter. We were single girls and we had found our new love.

Yvonne and I even showed up early to the games where they let you get real close to the action to watch the team warm up. We dabbed on lip gloss and smiled at them.

“Oh my god I think I just made eye contact with number 9!” I’d say.

“Yo, we gotta figure out a way to meet them…” Yvonne said.

I nodded, watching in awe at these star athletes. Yes, we had to meet them.

******

It was a quiet Friday night, around 11:15 pm. I was lazing on my couch after a long week of work with a glass of wine in hand. In comes a text message from Yvonne: “Lisa’s at the bar in Hoboken, she thinks a couple of players are there!”

Lisa, Yvonne’s roommate, frequented a particular Hoboken bar and once told us that some of our favorite sports players would sometimes make an appearance there.

No questions. I changed into something cute, threw on some makeup, slipped on my flats and I was on my way to Hoboken.

But, a couple of players? Um … the entire team was there.

I was shaking as we walked through the bar. “Oh my God, Yvonne, it’s number 24, look! Number 30!”

“OK, whatever happens tonight — play dumb,” she said, “We don’t know they’re professional athletes. Just be cool.”

We walked up to the bar and squeezed in through the crowd to order drinks. I looked to my left — and there he was: number 9. My crush. I even had a picture of him as my iPhone wallpaper (which I probably should have removed before entering the bar).

Then I spotted number 27, Yvonne’s crush. I leaned into her, “Dude, don’t look over now but number 27 is here!” It was all insanity. How did we end up as these sports freaks? How did we end up surrounded by this sports team we were freaks over?

It wasn’t long before number 22 started talking to Yvonne and me. He was huge! He had massive hands. He towered over us with broad shoulders. I wasn’t used to this. I always had the skinny little tattooed rocker guys around me.

“What do you do?” number 22 asked me.

“Oh I’m a writer.”

“Really?” he laughed, “Don’t write anything about me!”

I laughed, “Ok, I promise I won’t. What do you do?”

He came out with it and told us that he was a professional athlete.

“No way! I have to admit, I’m not really into sports,” Yvonne told him.

Number 22 bought our next round of beers. And just like that, we were being introduced to all of the other players. They told us their names and of course, we played stupid. We told them that we were regulars at that particular bar in Hoboken, but we’d never been there before in our lives. They were a rowdy bunch. Number 25 was wasted and crazed, howling up at the ceiling. He walked right up to me, took my beer out of my hand and pounded it down his throat in, like, one gulp.

“Don’t worry I’ll buy you another one,” he said in a drunken slur. And he did. What a guy!

I drank that cold one down fast. Out of nervousness. Out of excitement. I found myself standing there weird and alone near the bar with an empty glass in my hand. Yvonne was over to the side of the bar chatting up number 7 and it was just too crowded to work my way over to her. I took a look around me and watched all the players. Drinking beers, laughing and shouting over the music. This was really happening. I’ve watched these dudes tough it out on TV. I’ve watched them on the big screens in the arena from up in the nosebleed section. And here they were, all right in front of me.

“This girl looks like she’s not having fun!”

Oh, great. Some dude in my periphery was talking about me to his friend, loud enough for me to hear. I turned and looked at him, giving him an awkward smile. Wait. Whoa … he was cute.

“You look like you’re not having fun!” he said to me. I looked over at his friend — who I immediately recognized (yeah, it was number 11). But I wasn’t quite sure who this handsome guy was. Was he a player? He had a Miller Lite in his hand. And a wedding ring on his finger.

“Yeah, my friend is over there talking to someone,” I told him.

“Also looks like you need a drink. What’s your name?” he asked.

“I’m Clarissa.”

He held out his hand and said, “I’m Number 32.” (Well, of course, he told me his real name but obviously, I’ve got to protect his identity.) Then it clicked! It was number 32! You see, he was new to the team that year, so I didn’t recognize him at first. Holy hell, he was hot in person. I shook his hand. Then he reached over to the six-pack sitting on the table and handed me a Miller Lite. They got the royal treatment that night. Six-packs galore, all over the tables for the players.

Number 32 and I got to know each other a bit. Yet he didn’t tell me his profession and I didn’t ask — because I wasn’t sure how I would act or what I would say. And I’m a terrible actress. Yvonne came over to us and I introduced them.

“Yvonne, this is ‘Number 32.’” She played dumb, with a smirk on her face that only I could read.

Number 32 had a hip haircut and a bangin’ shiny silver watch on his wrist. Damn, all these boys had such fancy watches. Most of the players were younger than Yvonne and I and they had all made it to the top. They were so achieved, so driven. And the pressure they all had to endure with the crowds and the fame. It was definitely new — definitely not my typical type of guy that I was used to. But they were so real to me, gulping down shitty beer beside me that night at that nameless Hoboken bar. No longer just numbers on jerseys. But real guys.

“Who is that a picture of on your phone?” Number 32 asked me.

Oh shit. I had my iPhone out and switched it on right in front of 32. Right there on the screen was a photo of his teammate, number 9, dressed up in a suit. This was bad. Please don’t get caught, please don’t get caught, I thought as I shoved my iPhone back into my purse.

“Oh, it’s no one, it’s no one.” He looked at me skeptically. He was on to me.

“No, seriously… who was that on your phone?”

I started to panic.

“It’s seriously no one. Um, I’ve gotta go to the bathroom.” And I ducked out of that situation just like that. It was a close one.

We were doing shots of Patron with the team, high-fiving them and clinking our beers to cheer. And every time my beer hit empty, 32 was right there with a new cold one pointing at me. And we would do that eye thing — you know, when you catch each others eyes from time to time.

No way. Me? Flirting with the rookie?

And then all the lights in the bar had turned on and the music shut off. The players were loud and goofy, play fighting with each other like little boys. Yvonne, the genius that she is, invited 22 and 32 back to her apartment on the Weehawken cliffs that overlooked midtown and the Lincoln Tunnel entrance. And they agreed to join us! As for the rest of the team, well they stumbled out of the bar and pushed and shoved each other into a white SUV stretch limo that was parked outside of the bar waiting for them.

Yvonne drove and I sat in the passenger’s seat of her car. She blasted Lady Gaga and we danced around in our seats. Yup, we had two, cute professional sportsmen in the back seat! We drove back to her place and she told us to wait downstairs while she “straightened up a bit” which really meant hiding all the evidence — all the sports paraphernalia she had collected at the games, her stuffed teddy bear dressed up in the team jersey, the team calendar, the bobble heads and pennants.

I sat down on the couch in Yvonne’s living room and 32 came and followed after me. He plopped down and lifted up his legs. He threw them over my lap. He looked so tired and it was almost as though I could feel the strain and the pressure he endured from such a long season. I rested my hands on his legs.

But I just wanted one more glance down at 32’s left hand. So that I could remind myself to stay in line. Not to get any ideas about him. But when I looked down to his hand, I saw nothing. No ring. A bare left hand. I swore I saw a ring on that hand earlier in the night. No, there WAS a ring on his finger. Perhaps it was in his pocket. Perhaps he had taken his marriage and put it away for the night. But I just couldn’t do the same.

“Clarissa,” Yvonne said to me, “you should show 32 the view.”

“Yeah, Clarissa, show me the view!” 32 said. He grabbed my hand and pulled me up from the couch. He followed me out to the enclosed porch that looked out over Manhattan. The tiny lights of the towering buildings over the river. The billboards glaring above the winding Lincoln Tunnel entrance. Number 32 stood and gazed out to the cityscape in wonder, in the way that I would gaze out to the arena watching my boys fight for their win. Then he sat down on the couch and invited me to sit with him. So I did. And we sat so close, our shoulders touching. His body leaning into mine. The tunnel traffic moved slowly, with the screeching sounds of bus brakes. I could feel his eyes on me. And if there would be a moment for us, it would have been right there and then. But I just couldn’t let it happen. Because I know the rules of this game.

I watched 32 and 22 climb into the back seat of a cab from Yvonne’s window. His contract with the team didn’t get renewed for the next season. I’d never get to see him play again. And for some reason, I was just fine with that.

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