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To not be embarrassed when starting off a story about the gym makes you an oblivious narcissist. Gym stories, whether you intend them to be or not, are transmissions that broadcast ‘yeah I went to the gym this morning and I’m fucking perfect.’ The point of this gym story, however, is slightly different. Because the reason I’m writing this at 5:55 AM is that yes, I did go to they gym this morning, but no, they didn’t fucking open it. From 5:30 to 5:50 me and about 25 other people stood around and then wandered off like it was the end of Oceans 11, 12, or 13, take your pick. And that’s how New York works. Sometimes it’s wonderful but a lot of the time it’s screwing you like Mr. T in jail – missionary against a wall. And now I find this morning that our entire season could come down to a Sunday afternoon shootout against the team I’ve always harbored in depths of my bowels, the Rangers

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