So I walk into a midtown parking garage today to meet my wife and kid, who rolled in b/c we have dinner plans. Who gets into a Jeep Grand Cherokee 3 feet away from us? None other than Keith Hernandez. He was cranking some terrible type of Latin pop music that I'd never heard before. His hair was jet black thanks to the free dye he gets while peddling the stuff with Walt Frazier. 
While holding a stroller with my son, I was torn between saying one of the following:A - "Sorry dude, but he'll be a Yankee fan."
B - "You're Keith Hernandez!"
C - "Did you just buy an 8-ball?"
Sadly, I just mumbled to myself while staring at him, disappointing me and probably creeping him out a bit. Sad turn of affairs.
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