I'm an up-and-coming baseball player in New York. After years of working on minor league teams, I finally hit my big break. Once I made a bit of a name for myself, I was invited to all the fancy parties with all the famous stars. At one gala, I had a bit too much to drink, and needed to cool down.
I went outside onto the balcony, surveying the cityscape while leaning against the railing. I initially thought I was all alone out there with my thoughts on that chilly December evening, but much to my surprise, Aaron Judge was sitting on a bench. He looked so beautiful, wearing a Pinstripe jersey and a Yankee cap that perfectly complimented his smoldering eyes. Utterly enchanting.
Normally I would never approach someone so famous, but emboldened by the liquor in my veins, I made my way over to him.
"Evening," I said, in what I hoped was not a completely starstruck tone.
"How's it going," he replied distantly. Sadness tinged his voice, and I could tell he was not enjoying himself tonight.
"I know you must hear this all the time, but you look absolutely stunning tonight," I said. For a brief moment, a smile flitted across his face, cutting through his melancholy.
A gust of chill wind blew across the balcony, and Aaron shivered. It was unusually cold for New York, and his jersey would not do him much good outside. I removed my suit jacket, offering it to him. He accepted it gratefully, draping the jacket across his shoulders. "You can sit down if you want," he told me, patting next to him on the bench.
I lowered myself next to him. I was perfectly fine with sitting there in silence, but to my surprise he began to make conversation. We spoke about light, inconsequential topics for an over an hour. Our favorite restaurants, hobbies, that sort of thing. I even managed to make him laugh a few times, and what a hearty laugh it was. The liquor had no effect on me any more; I was intoxicated by this handsome, lovely, witty man who for some reason seemed to enjoy my company.
"You seemed a bit forlorn when I first came out here, Aaron," I said eventually. "Is everything okay?"
He sighed. "It's nothing, really. I wouldn't want to trouble you with something so mundane."
"It's no trouble at all."
He bit his lower lip. "I got into a bit of an argument with my manager. I told him I wanted to take a break from playing at right-field and trying my hand at pitching, but Girardi told me it would be ridiculous. I know it's silly and that I've been plenty successful in the outfield. It's just that baseball games are so short. Three hours, four hours at the most. I want something where I can develop my character over the years, perfecting the subtle nuances and evolving over time."
"It makes sense," I assured him. "You want to try something different, a new challenge to embark on to really make use of your talents." "Exactly!" He exclaimed, eyes lighting up. "You get me. I know I've only just met you James, but I feel like I've known you for a long, long time." He moved in closer to me, and I took a chance, draping my arm around his gigantic shoulders. Aaron did not seem to mind. No, quite the opposite in fact. He leaned into me, resting his head on my upper arm.
"So what kind of pitcher would you like to be?" I asked.
Aaron looked up, his eyes meeting mine. "Oh, something epic. Dellin Betances is my favorite pitcher right now, so I'd love to be a closer of that magnitude. What about you, James? Who's your favorite pitcher?"
"CC Sabathia," I told him.
"I've tried to watch him, but his pitching just wasn't really my thing," Aaron said. He began to trace his finger on my chest, but I slapped it away, standing up abruptly. Red rage clouded my vision.
"To be fair," I declared intensely,"you have to have a very high IQ to understand CC Sabathia pitching. The power is extremely subtle, and without a solid grasp of theoretical physics most of the strikes will go over a typical viewer's head. There's also Sir Didi's nihilistic outlook, which is deftly woven into his tweets- his personal philosophy draws heavily from RE2PECT, for instance. The fans understand this stuff; they have the intellectual capacity to truly appreciate the depths of these 82mph heaters, to realize that they're not just memes- they say something deep about LIFE. As a consequence people who dislike CC truly ARE idiots- of course they wouldn't appreciate, for instance, the humour in Girardi's existencial catchphrase "It's what you want," which itself is a cryptic reference to Turgenev's Russian epic Fathers and Sons. I'm smirking right now just imagining one of those addlepated simpletons scratching their heads in confusion as Brian Cashmans's genius unfolds itself on their television screens. What fools... how I pity them.