From the commute

Today there's a "ticker tape parade" in downtown Manhattan, celebrating the Giants win over the Patriots in the latest Superbowl.

This morning, back from an extended vacation, and I was dressed in my "I am my father" outfit - suit, tie, jacket. iPhone earbuds were in, listening the The New Yorker Comment podcast. I was on the R train, which goes directly to South Ferry, a few blocks from the parade. Giants fans, young guys, poured into the car at Atlantic Center. They were shouting, they moved people from their seats, one even began to roll a joint. Their coffee cups smelled like Bud Light.

Of course, I had that odd male moment where I thought, "Well, I'll just ignore these guys. I'm not going to get pushed around." I sort of stood there, increasingly idiotically, as if they weren't shouting at each other just past my head. Pretended all I could hear was a narrator reading Henrik Hertzberg's latest. Felt some combination of superior and intimidated, an all-too-familiar feeling from growing up in a baseball town.

I wasn't the only one rolling my eyes. We all were, of course. This is the sacred commute, a quiet 30-60 minutes of thoughtful dread. No one on that car thought these guys had any right to be loud.

One of the fans shouted, "We're such dicks! We're bothering everyone going to work!" They all laughed. Then one said, "I wish I was going to work!" They all laughed. Less.

A reminder.