After several frozen cocktails at Under the Volcano on empty stomachs, converted Houstonians Jeremy C. Little (a publicist) and Colin “Dabbo” Dabbs (a junior high history teacher) finally decided to do it. Eight days, 10 Major League ballparks, the Budweiser brewery, and enough fried food to give Carlos Lee the gout. It’s the Great American Bro'd Trip and this is the account of day eight.

Day 8: Ellerton, MD.-The Bronx, N.Y.: 256 miles

Tofu steaks in the lions' den

Perhaps it was a sign from the scheduling gods that the Bro’d Trip was meant to be, but at the very least, the Houston Astros-New York Yankees matchup at the new Yankee Stadium was the perfect capstone. The House Adjacent to the Empty Hole That Used to Be the House That Ruth built is perhaps the best marriage of franchise and building in pro sports.

Whoever said that the new building would lack the Yankee’s mystique is out of their friggin’ mind. These hallowed halls — although new and wider — are still haunted by legends. Stadium planners achieved something thought to be impossible. They built a new stadium that somehow retains the tradition of the old one.

Bravo Yankees. I still hate you.

Before the season started, everyone knew that the Astros weren’t playoff bound, but it takes a team like the New York Yankees to demonstrate just how far the hometown team has to go to claw their way back to relevance. Final score: NYY 9, HOU 5.

The ‘Stros did crawl back to within two, but the rally ultimately fell short. It did give us an excuse, however, to make some noise with the Yankees faithful happily playing along. Following Yankees catcher Jorge Posada’s grand slam, I got into it with a Yankees old timer leading to the following exchange:

Yankees fan: “Hip, hip! Jorge! Bet you don’t have any Jorge in Houston.”

Me: “Excuse me, sir, I can assure you that we have plenty of Jorge in Houston.”

Douche/Not a Douche: The legend of slappy McBlue Lips
Yankee Stadium? Too easy. You could throw a gumball in any direction and hit a baker’s dozen of douches, so let’s direct this one onto the field.

As much pain as Derek Jeter has caused me as a sports fan, I grudgingly respect Derek Jeter. The guy is an absolute class act, keeps his personal life personal, and has yet to flunk a pee test. Alex Rodriguez on the other hand ... well let’s get started:

The evidence: Frosted tips? Check. Steroid abuse? Check. Womanizer? Check. Owns a portrait of himself as a centaur? Check. Banged Skeletor (Madonna) and was proud of it? Ewww. Slapped the ball away from Bronson Arroyo during the 2004 ALCS? Nice purse, A-Hole. The legend lives.

In his defense: He’s going to break Barry “Bobblehead” Bonds’ fraudulent home run record having presumably used fewer steroids, so at least the record will be ever-so-slightly less tainted, which is something.

The verdict: Book him for season three of Jersey Shore. It’s time to unleash the “A-Situation.” The man was born to fist pump.