Yesterday, one of my favorite bloggers, Salt, talked about her love of baseball. I read with envy as she spoke about her love for catching a game in her home state of Maryland. She doesn't care who wins or loses, she's in it for the good times.
Oh dear readers, I wish I cared about baseball. I was raised in a house of crazy Mets and Yankees fans, depending on what year we're talking. My maternal grandpa was a Yankees fanatic his entire life. My paternal grandma has become an obsessed Yankees fan in her later years. My aunts, uncles, cousins, everyone loves baseball.
As a little kid in the 1980s, I had a crush on Mets player, Ron Darling. I swear I did. I'd sometimes watch the games with my mom. I never actually paid attention to the game though. Instead, I'd day dream about Corey Feldman or what snack to fix. I wasn't actually "watching" the game.
Today, I still can't escape baseball. I married the #1 Yankees fan in the entire state of New Jersey. The Connecticut/New York/New Jersey tri-state folk often love the Yankees or Mets baseball teams. Unless you get too close to New England, then you're a Connecticut resident who loves the Boston Red Socks or if you live in South Jersey, too close to Philly, you love The Phillies.
|Johnny Damon Yankees makeover: Cute rocker turned clean cut.|
Why can't I somehow find it in me to fall in love like my family, husband, bloggers and the other wives of baseball fans? I've tried to develop crushes on Yankee players, but I was never really all that attracted to jocks, so the crushes fade faster than someone can steal home plate (wait, does that analogy even make sense?). I tried loving Johnny Damon, then he cut his hair to play for The Yankees. Now he's not even on the team.
|Yankees Nick Swisher ... Sorta douchey looking, no?|
I tried loving Nick Swisher. However, Nick Swisher kinda reminds me of one of those cocky jerks I'd encounter at a Long Island night club back in the day. Gripping a 50 cent Bud Light, he'd fumble his way over to me and spit out the following classic line, "Yo, 'eh, my friend wants your number, bah hah, NOTTTT!!!' then quickly run away bumping into people and spilling his cheap beer everywhere.
I long to some day join in the Facebook banter between high school alumni, relatives and friends who update their status minute to minute with the play by play. "Come on A-Rod, you can do it!" and "Nice play, Yanks 2, Tampa Bay 1! We can do this New York!" Oh, and then there's my brother with his nonstop, "Who's your daddy? NEW YORK IS! DAT'S RIGHT!"
Like Salt, I've been to games. What's my only favorite part about these games? The foot-long wieners outside the stadium and the $10 pretzel washed down with a $10 Diet Coke. I have yet to visit the new Yankee stadium, but always feared those steps. I remember feeling that way at Madison Square Garden and Giants Stadium concerts. There's something about sports arena staircases that make me feel as if I'm going to suddenly fall backward and land 50 feet below. Yeah, I know that's probably not even humanly possible. Chalk it up to one of my irrational fears. Whatever.
OK, so that's my story. I'm not down with baseball. I wish I was. I've tried many times to get into it, and just can't. The lingo bugs me and I'll never really mentally grasp it. I think I've asked my husband what an RBI is 100 times since we've met. As I'm typing this I still don't remember what it means. The radio announcer always says, "And it's a "1-0" and I'm thinking, "What the hell is a 'one oh?'"
Counting down to November, only to do it all over again like four months later.