Wandering around the American pavillion just before the fireworks show in Epoct when I spotted him.
He sat there, in a popup canvas chair, looking smug as could be. They all look that way to me; it doesn't matter where I see them.
He sat there, with his smirk and his better than everyone else stare as he surveyed all before him. They all do this, they can't help it.
As we approched he rose and straighted his feathers so that all could see. And feathers in spades. Hat, t shirt, jersey, even the chair.
Proud ones this lot. They certainly seem to think they have reason to be.
Our colors were not as bold, the rarely are, but were no less heart felt.
Our colors are more understated, chosing to point to box scores and stats than rhetoric.
And they don't run.
Distance closing slowly. Stares never unlocking.
"Nice 'B' ya got dare" in an accent that comes only from living blocks from the heart of the Empire, sacrasm weighing as heavy as the golden Yankees emblem that tugged down his impossibly thick neck.
"Nice Pinstripes" was was our Yawkey Way retort.
Toe to toe now. Ennio Morricone plays his tune. A grim faced stern duel. Nearby strangers watching because they have to, sheilding the eyes of those who must not.
Collective breath held.
Together we both crack a smile, throw our amrs open, and yell "It's Disney!" and hug it out.
We depart simply and move on our way. The Yankees fan returns to his seat. Everyone is all the more pleased with life. Paces away stands a pin station, at which I found a Red Sox B with Mickey Mouse. I brought my purchase back to the peacock and tossed it spinning onto his lap.
"What's this?"
"See you in September."