Baseball season, for me, starts a little earlier every fall. Once a sport that I followed only on a game to game basis, in a moment of small talk with someone wearing the NY emblem screen printed on a t-shirt or stitched on a cap, or to distract myself from the whirring of the elliptical pedals in the gym, every game has become all extremities crossed for luck, a navy blue t-shirt hem frayed from being fidgeted between anxious fingers, and “what’s the score?”
I used to memorize names and lingo. As long as I knew what to look for, I could identify a big moment when I saw one. I knew who to applaud and who to fear, I liked saying “grand slam,” and if I paid enough attention to the little blue diamond in the upper-left hand corner of the screen, I knew when to cross my fingers and what play to cross them for, chanting under my breath, listening to the on-edge watchfulness in the commentator’s pauses.
Of course, it was all a scam. The whole time, I just tried not to cheer or gasp at the wrong moment, metaphorically kicking the ball between the other team’s goal posts.
It is through this hold-your-breath patience that I learn to love the baseball game a little more each season. I like that, with a little observation, I can predict the next move with a certain degree of accuracy. I like that everything you need to know fits into that little baseball diamond graphic in the corner of the screen. That leaves more room for the impatience, the fan hysteria, the grudges, the surprises, and the grand slams.
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