the heel press

"Hey, buddy," the first one slurred at me holding out a ruddy palm.  "The name's Shane.  What's your name?"
   
I gave him my name, taking hold of his still outstretched hand, hoping that this gesture of friendship among fellow train travelers would be sufficient for him to turn his attention elsewhere.

"Sowhereyafrom?" he continued, his speech growing more indecipherable by the minute. 

"California," I said quietly, turning my head towards the window, thinking that a lack of eye contact would dissuade any further conversation. 

"Ca-lee-for-nia, eh?" he said, sounding out each syllable as if it were the first time he had heard the word.  "I thought you was from France," he said, and started guffawing to his two buddies like that was the funniest thing he had ever heard. 

I stayed silent, hoping that he would get bored of this one-sided talk.

"What?  You don't understand I'm saying?" he asked, with a bit more intensity.  "Do you understand what I'm saying, now?" he said, before promptly uttering a string of words that might have passed for a bastardized version of some Asian language that he had picked up at a Panda Express.

Wanting to retaliate with some snappy retort, I instead bit my tongue, realizing that any agitation by me against three drunk guys that cleared two hundred pounds apiece, could easily end up being one of those stories that ends up with me waking up at a hospital, trying to remember my name. 

Shane looked at me, expectantly, waiting for a response.

A moment later, one of Shane's friends punched him in the shoulder, saying, "Dude, shut up!"  He looked at me and said, "Don't mind him.  He's just an idiot who thinks he's a comedian."

"It's alright."  I said, looking back towards Shane.  "I'd be drunk all the time too, if my team sucked as much as the Brewers."

With a look of utter shock, Shane started sputtering out something about how great the Brewers were and how "this is their year to win it all." 

Emboldened, I responded with the cold hard facts.  "Yeah, I remember the last time I saw those Milwaukee Brewers in the World Series.  Oh wait, no I don't...cuz I was two."

Shane suddenly looked at me with a mixture of hurt and anger. 

Okay, maybe I had gone too far, I thought to myself, as I braced myself for the impending punch to the face.

After an interminable silence that probably only lasted about three seconds, Shane suddenly reached out and gently (at least for him) slapped me on the shoulder saying, "You're alright, man...And the Dodgers suck!" 

Sensing that the imminent threat of a beatdown had passed, I smiled at the three men and spent the next few minutes talking with them about how overrated the Red Sox are and who should make the All Star team this year, until we reached the next stop.  I quickly scrambled out of the train, turning around only when the three men began a "Dodgers Suck!" chant.  And as the doors closed, I smiled, thinking about how sports had come to my rescue.  Because no matter how different two people might be, we can all take solace in one simple fact.  My team can definitely kick your team's butt.