Yanks go home emptyhanded but for one run

It was the moment when the Yankee sceptic and optimist alike joined in their love for the home team to pour out their outrage at the Los Angeles Angels.
"Aaaahhs-hole! Aaasss-hole!" the crowd started chanting and booing at the Angels' pitcher as the fans' darling Derek Jeter, leaning his injured head to the side that had been hit by the errant ball, slowly walked to first base. Then the crowd cheered, and it was back to business as usual, as the spectators huddled in the chilly evening air on their hard plastic seats with beer and peanuts in their hands.
"Come on, sucker! You suck! You suck!" someone from high above screamed as the next Yankee player became strike number two.
"You suck! You suck!" chanted two young boys sitting next to us, their freckled little faces intent on trying out the word more than anything else. We raised our eyebrows, but they were only copying the people swearing around them. Then the ambitious fans on the right field started a Mexican wave, triggering a ripple of half-hearted shouts and standing up of each section of the stadium, and then another, and then a third which died halfway through.

"Do you know, I used to date this girl who lived next door to Bernie Williams," M.'s friend S. said. "I was helping her take in the groceries one day, and she stops and says hello to this guy taking out his trash. And I see it's Bernie Williams! So I say to her, 'Do you know who that guy is?' and she says, 'Oh, I think he's into some kind of sport'."
"Crazy," P. said, shaking his head and laughing. We cheered loudly at A-Rod, hoping he would demonstrate Tuesday night's skills, but he was very quickly struck out.
"You know, we used to come here all the time, and it was so cheap then. Tickets were like, what, twenty dollars? And now it's over forty dollars! Everything's gotten so expensive," M. said, and his friends nodded glumly while drinking their beer. I sucked my own glass, and
started screaming with everyone else as the third strike out ended the inning.
"This is depressing," I said. "Not one single score."
"No, it's not a score, it's a run," M. said.
"What's the difference?" I said.
"It's a run, when you get a player to go home after going through all three bases," M. said.
"So that's a score, one point, right?" I said.
"No, it's a run," M. said. P. intervened.
"It's basically the equivalent to one point, yes," he said. I glared at M. but he looked back at me and said, "It's a run."

A foul ball came soaring through the air, and for one hopeful second it looked as though it would land straight on our first row laps, but it veered ever so slightly to the right and a happy old gentleman dressed head to toe in Yankee gear held up the ball in his baseball glove.
"Do they look fat now?" M. asked me. I always teased his beloved baseball players when he watched them on televised games, saying they looked overweight.
"No, I guess not," I said. "They don't look fat."
"I tell you, if you sit next to the dug outs, you'll see these guys are built like, like... from their buttocks to their knees, man, they are powerfully built," P. said. "They have all their power in their upper body and from the middle, you see?"
"I know, I know, they don't just have fat arses," I said.

Yankees v. Angels = 1:3