I used to really like baseball. Honestly, I did. Thanks to a fanatic college room mate with a questionable addiction to Sports Center, I was force-fed the game. As a New Englander, I was always smart enough to say I hated the Yankees, but it was her infectious passion for Boston sports that really brought me on board. She even introduced me to Red Sox Nation in the year they finally won the World Series. Lucky for me, I didn’t have to waste any heartache on all that “curse of the bambino” mumbo-jumbo. Instead, I stepped right onto the band-wagon after watching Curt Shilling bleed through his sock. Watching the first team win four straight games in a playoff series, after being down three, seemed like the right time to become a die-hard fan. I bet I could even rattle off the entire 2004 Red Sox line up today, although the proper pronunciation of Mueller and Millar remains an embarrassing challenge for me. I would watch the games and say, “Okay, c’mon Miller!” when he got up to bat, and my room mate would say, “That’s Mill-AR” with venom and spikes on her tongue. She took her baseball really seriously. Regardless, that was the baseball I learned to love.
Half way through Anthony’s 2013 season, my perception of baseball had changed. Whoever said baseball was America’s favorite past-time clearly hadn’t sat through six games a week for two months straight. They hadn’t crossed an international borderline every single day, or eaten Jack In The Box for dinner every single night. They hadn’t left their family and very best friends almost four thousand miles behind for a pipe dream. There was only one person in existence on this earth who could do that and then still gloat about how much they loved baseball. I’ll give you a hint – it wasn’t my college room mate. Give up? Alright slow kids, it was Mama D, and I just wasn’t her. I really started to despise my life. It had boiled down to just two options: work all day long and then spend seven hours watching baseball, or work all day long and spend the evenings alone in our empty house. I tried the latter once or twice, but it was more depressing, sitting there on the couch, scanning my Facebook news feed every ten minutes. Status updates like “drinks with the girls!” or “dinner with my besties!” made me almost delete Facebook, but then I wondered who’s lives I would live vicariously through. So I kept Facebook in tact and opted for sixteen hour days of work and baseball. Hence, the onset of my sheer hatred of baseball.
Even though I had grown to hate it, baseball became like a massive car wreck on the highway to me. It was utterly horrific to look at, but too crazy to ignore. The more I tried to turn away, the more I couldn’t stand to miss a thing. I continued going to all the games because it was the only way I felt we could ever see each other, and I started going on the weekend road trips too. Even the dogs joined in on the fun. Showing up behind the team bus at hotels, we’d unload all of Anthony’s baseball gear, my huge suitcases, and two little ankle-biters who were ready to urinate all over Mexico. We were a complete circus.
I had lost all balance in my life and was in this black hole of baseball hell. I was desperate for a blue print that would guide me safely to the end of our story, and I felt helpless knowing that nothing like that existed. It was just me and my damn heart in this journey, and for the first time in our two years of dating I really began to question it.