JONATHAN GOLDSTEIN

‘A baseball cap comes with responsibilities. Especially in places where men tend to make small talk — like, say, a urinal’

The man beside me nods at my cap and mumbles some nonsense — something about RBI doubles in yesterday’s game. This is because I’m wearing a Yankees cap.

I started wearing the cap about 10 years ago. Not because I love the Yankees, or baseball — of which, I don’t think I’ve ever even sat through an entire game. In fact, I was once walking down the street in New York with a friend when I saw someone coming toward us doling out high-fives to construction workers, street vendors, and passersby as he made his way. “Who’s that?” I asked my friend. “You don’t know?” he asked. I shook my head. It was Derek Jeter, captain of the Yankees at the time. My friend then said I didn’t deserve to wear the Yankees cap atop my head. (Ironically, later in the afternoon we’d run into another New York resident: Malcolm Gladwell. He was walking though the streets completely unnoticed by everyone. Except for me. I pointed him out to my friend while hopping from foot to foot with fancy lad glee.)

I wear the cap because it makes life easier. Back when I had hair, wearing it meant not having to brush my hair. And when I lost my hair, a cap meant not having to think about how bald I am. I chose a Yankees cap because I liked the design, the way the “y” rests atop the “n” forming some kind of hobo symbol looking thing. I like how it looks against the dark blue.

I trace my infatuation with the Yankees cap to a photo I once saw of Paul Simon wearing one in the 1970s. To my teenage mind, the cap made him seem casual and cool. New Yorky. The cap spoke of eating Coney Islands and hanging out on street corners. Possibly while singing doo-wop.

I have rituals that attend the cap, too. For instance, I like wearing it cinched one notch too tight so that it pops up in the air like a top hat. Though I’m not a large man, having a cap that is too tight to pull down over my head makes me feel like a large man. (This is also why I like drinking espresso. Not because of the drink, but because of the tiny cups it comes in and how large they make me feel.)

But as I’ve learned over the years, a sport’s cap comes with responsibilities. Especially in places where men tend to make small talk — like, say, a urinal. Which is where I am now. So when RBI’s — or other acronyms I can’t make sense of — are mentioned, I say the following: “What a season.”

If the Yankees are doing well, my words seem happy; if they aren’t doing well, they seem ironic. If asked anything else, I just nod. But today there’s no need for that. The man seems satisfied. When I retire, I might switch to a sailor cap. “Bad weather lately,” they’ll say. “Tough to keep the chine from digging in.”

“What a season,” I’ll respond.