Those of you who have gotten to know my approach to the world might look at this photo of two Pirates fans I encountered at Citi Field today and assume you know what’s coming.  You probably figure that I’m going to bemoan the state of America’s youth and then mercilessly insult them for their overblown display of team spirit.  But not so.

I am nothing if not unpredictable.

True.  I am predisposed to shy away from festive people who do festive things.  True also that I tend to take issue with what I perceive to be the sometimes undignified and confrontational face of modern day cheering.  (See mascots and t-shirt guns.)  And, yet, there is something about this pair of pirates that I find endearing.

Unlike face painting, this was no arbitrary display of fanmanship.  Nor was it deeply offensive like, say, dressing up like an Indian chief.  And, frankly, to put on full pirate garb and get on the subway and ride into the bowels of Flushing and through that crazy space-time vortex rotunda?  That’s takes chutzpah.  So, if nothing else, much respect.

In any event, for whatever reason, this wacky pair tapped into that place in my heart where I store my affection.  You know the one — it’s the place normally reserved for dogs, Mariano Rivera and people from the Midwest.  So I decided to approach them to find out what their deal was.

As it turned out, this was an old-ish tradition.  The pair had gone to college together, which I should have suspected. Anything involving a pirate costume usually dates back to college.  And, no, this wasn’t something they did EVERY time they went to see the Pirates. Only special occasions — interleague play.  (And, well, presumably the Mets.)

They told me that, by and large, they were warmly received wherever they went.  And I’m not surprised.  It’s like I said.  Unlike a creepy guy dressed up like a giant baseball, there’s just something inherently endearing about a couple of guys wearing pirate outfits. (Unless, of course, you’re on the coast of Somalia.)  Hell, former Pirate Kip Wells stumbled upon the two of them on the train ride home from an interleague series game in Boston once, and even he was so psyched on their lovable brand of loco that he got out his camera and started snapping photos.  (Their response was something like, “Um.  Shouldn’t we be taking YOUR picture?”)

They did say that of all the fans in all the stadiums in all the world, the ones in Fenway were perhaps the least supportive of their expression of their individuality.  (Surprise, surprise.) And by least supportive, I mean most obnoxious.  (I will admit that they said it with a good amount of leading from yours truly.  To be fair, though, they were going there anyway.  I just gave them a little bit of a nudge in the right direction.)  One even went so far as to say, “The only place I thought I might actually have to walk the plank was at Fenway.”

I have no idea what that means, but I’m pretty sure I love it.

At the end of our exchange, they assured me that, while they were having a good time, it was but a once a year thing for them: “It isn’t our day job or anything.”

Which is a good thing.  Because if it was that would make them mascots.  And we actually would have to hate them.