I know you.
I see you standing on the crowded train, leaning against the doors. Every time the doors fly open toward you, you make a point to jump out of the way, laughing as they barely miss you.
You're wearing a Red Sox cap. The guy you're with, he's around your age, in his mid-20s, and he's sporting a Red Sox shirt. Like me, like the rest of the passengers, you're probably going to the game at Fenway. You blend in with your well-worn jeans, your scruffy half-beard, and your obligatory fan paraphernalia, the cap that covers the part of your hair—on the right side—that's beginning to thin.