Muni's a Perfect Setting for the Battle of the Drunk Baseball Fans
Categories: Bouncer
On the night of the first game of the World Series, I was working in Golden Gate Heights until about 10. When I got off, I waited for the 38 Geary, gingerly taking my seat at the bus stop amid young men with bottles of Mickey's and giddy, postgame expressions on their Springsteen-fan faces. The bus came and we all boarded. The driver didn't seem to care that they had booze. The guys headed to the back of the bus, where they saw other Giants fans, also with beer, and of course huge whoops and manly barks ensued.
As for me, I sat in the middle of the bus and worked my acrostic. Occasionally I exchanged eye-rolls with a kid across from me when the party in the back got especially raucous.
And the driver? Not a shit did he give.
I was doing my usual counting down of streets along Geary, each one bringing me closer to my final stop of Powell, where I could hop off and be that much closer to home. Then two middle-aged dudes boarded, drunk out of their minds. These were class-A goombahs -- not even Bruce fans, more like Bon Jovi. They instinctually headed to the back of the bus, arms raised in fists of victory, and volunteered new whoops to the whoops already whooping.
[Eye-roll between kid and me.]
There were yelling and revelry and boisterous goodwill. The big galoot was so happy I thought he was gonna squat right there and poop with a mighty roar. Then I heard it, out of the corner of my ear, one word I knew would change everything: "Yankees." I don't know who said it, or why. I only knew it wasn't good. From what little I know about sports, I figured there were two words you don't want to say on the back of a post-Giants win on a drunken bus: Dodgers or Yankees.
A melee broke out, naturally. At least six men had a gigantic fist fight. One guy had another in a headlock and was kneeing him in the face. The old drunk guys were flailing around wildly with faces full of pure hatred.
And the driver? Not a shit did he give.
... continue reading this week's Bouncer column.
Follow us on Twitter @SFAllShookDown and @BouncerSF
As for me, I sat in the middle of the bus and worked my acrostic. Occasionally I exchanged eye-rolls with a kid across from me when the party in the back got especially raucous.
And the driver? Not a shit did he give.
I was doing my usual counting down of streets along Geary, each one bringing me closer to my final stop of Powell, where I could hop off and be that much closer to home. Then two middle-aged dudes boarded, drunk out of their minds. These were class-A goombahs -- not even Bruce fans, more like Bon Jovi. They instinctually headed to the back of the bus, arms raised in fists of victory, and volunteered new whoops to the whoops already whooping.
[Eye-roll between kid and me.]
There were yelling and revelry and boisterous goodwill. The big galoot was so happy I thought he was gonna squat right there and poop with a mighty roar. Then I heard it, out of the corner of my ear, one word I knew would change everything: "Yankees." I don't know who said it, or why. I only knew it wasn't good. From what little I know about sports, I figured there were two words you don't want to say on the back of a post-Giants win on a drunken bus: Dodgers or Yankees.
A melee broke out, naturally. At least six men had a gigantic fist fight. One guy had another in a headlock and was kneeing him in the face. The old drunk guys were flailing around wildly with faces full of pure hatred.
And the driver? Not a shit did he give.
... continue reading this week's Bouncer column.
Follow us on Twitter @SFAllShookDown and @BouncerSF
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