Connecticut is divided in a diagonal line between Red Sox and Yankees territory. The Red Sox rule the North Eastern section, the Yankees the South Western. There is much intermixing, however, and the center of the state (where I live) is up for grabs.
We get called for the lift assist. Man slipped getting out of his easy chair and needs help getting up. Not hurt, just needs a lift. We lift him back up and get him set comfortable in his chair in front of the TV. “You guys are great!” he says. “I hated to bother you.”
“No bother at all. It’s our job. It’s what we do. Happy to help.”
“Thanks a million.”
“Call us anytime you need us.”
“Will do. Next time I’ll have the wife have breakfast ready for you.”
“Sounds good. My partner likes her coffee black. I prefer a Diet Coke.”
“Okay, I’ll remember that.”
“You take care now.”
“Hey, how about those Yankees last night,” he says.
“Hey, how about we put you back on the floor?”
Note: I added this comment:
The patient was a good sport about our ribbing. I did feel bad for him, having to watch the Red Sox whup his team that afternoon.
I know someday when I am on the floor and need to be picked up, if I am still in these parts, I will be careful about saying, “Hey, how about those Red Sox?”, to avoid the retribution I surely have coming to me (unless both medics are wearing Red Sox hats.)