Struggles with Sportsmanship

I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a long time, but I couldn’t figure out where to start or what to focus on or how to not sound slightly deranged. As you may imagine, no clarity has come through this thinking and so this will all be a jumbled, piecemeal mess. Good luck.

In Port St. Lucie this weekend, there was an exceedingly drunk and exceedingly loud man (correlated? Perhaps). He yelled things (at a very unnecessary decibel) every single time someone went up to bat. This was the extra innings game (if you recall) so most of the stadium had left and he was incredibly audible. One of our guys came up to bat and he shouted “easy out!” at the top of his lungs (which doesn’t even make sense because that guy had like three hits already but, you know, I’m not here to split hairs). And a boy behind me who was probably about 10 yelled back “that isn’t very nice. Why would you say such a thing?” It was awesome and no, it did not stop the man from continuing to bellow through the remaining innings.

As I laughed, I thought how many times a game some people need to hear that. Did you hear about that Phillies fan a couple of years ago that purposely vomited on an 11 year old girl? Or the Giants fan that is STILL in a coma after getting beaten outside of Dodgers Stadium on OPENING DAY!? I read an article by Mike Celizic on the NBC Sports Web site that summed up my feelings exactly. “And too many fans think that because they paid for a ticket, they can say and do anything they please. I’ve never understood that. You pay for the right to attend an event, and you abide by the rules of the people who own and run the facility. You pay a lot of money to go to the philharmonic, too, but that doesn’t mean you can leap to your feet during the third movement of Beethoven’s Third and inform the oboist that his mother is a woman of loose morals and his daughter hangs around at the gates of the army base.

At team events, you accept a lot of conditions that go with the ticket. You can’t sit anywhere you want. You can’t bring in your own six-pack. You can’t bring in a backpack.

But you can act like an uncivilized jerk? You can behave in a manner that you wouldn’t want to see in your children? You can be foul-mouthed and abusive in front of families and small children? You can call people things you would punch somebody for calling you?

And then you can act surprised and offended on the incredibly rare occasions when someone strikes back?”

Bravo Mike (whoever you are)! What I really want to talk about is that last part. It’s extremely difficult not to get upset when someone insults a person you love. The knee-jerk reaction is to strike back, to deal a blow that evens the score. Luckily, I’ve been largely spared from actually hearing people talk meanly about Nik. It’s only happened once and, so help me, if his dad hadn’t of been there, I might have punched an old man in the head.

In his first outing of Spring Training this year, Nik threw seven balls in a row. Not good. But, hey, it’s Spring Training and I’m his fiancé so I wasn’t too bugged. But an elderly gentleman (I’m taking the high road here) who was there cheering for Nik’s team started yelling, “Next!” after the fifth ball. Seriously old man? He hasn’t played a game in six months and this doesn’t even count—why don’t you lighten up? He then continued to yell for the subsequent balls. Listen, I love my fiancé and nobody, not nobody, is going to sit and repeatedly insult him in my presence. I was seriously contemplating throwing down with this guy. But I held my tongue and glared (an if looks could kill kind of stare down) at the back of his head for the rest of the inning.

The thing is, I know I shouldn’t bother with these people. I know I should ignore these things but, ooh, it just makes my blood boil. And I know the taunting and the insults are just going to get worse. Wait until I have to endure the Phillies fans (ugh!). How can I remain gracious and dignified when every fiber of my being wants to superman punch someone in the throat? I don’t have the answers but I desperately hope it’s something that gets easier with time. Maybe one day I’ll wake up and have a “clear the mechanism’ feature ala Kevin Costner and be able to tune everyone out when Nik pitches. Wouldn’t that be a glorious end to my struggles with sportsmanship?

Extra Innings

Extra innings-the bane of baseball WAGs everywhere, particularly for those who don’t exactly enjoy the game such as yours truly. Before this weekend, my mind knew that extra innings existed. I had heard about those marathon games and realized that if that scoreboard was tied at the bottom of the ninth, someone has to win, which means more baseball. But this weekend was my first actual experience with extra innings—twice, in a row. Saturday was a double header, which means only seven innings (yay!) or so I thought. I showed up about thirty minutes before the second game because, really, who needs to watch both? I personally feel that all games should be seven innings so I was pretty happy with the arrangement. That is until the fourth—that’s when Nik’s team decided to score five runs in one inning all willy nilly like and tie things up. And the score didn’t change. FOR SEVEN MORE INNINGS. Thankfully, at the bottom of the 12th, the Mets put us all (and by us all, I mean the 30 people left at the stadium) out of our misery. Well, technically our pitcher put us out of our misery. You see, this ridiculous game ended in, what I would imagine, is the silliest fashion ever. The Mets got one hit- a single. Then we intentionally walked two guys in a row (to the very persistent and very audible boos of the Mets fans) to load the bases. Next batter gets hit right in the shoulder with the very first pitch—game over. Thank goodness. Sunday, another score tied at 5-5 (unbelievable, no?), another game going to extra innings. Luckily, it was just one. We lost it in the bottom of the 10th but not before this WAG decided she would be perfectly happy never having to sit through extra innings again. A girl can dream...

Famous Fiancés

Nik pitched in his first Florida State League game this past weekend and had a solid (13 people!) fan section for his opening day. As we separated from his parents (who were visiting) after the game, his mom said “Good job Nik,” or something like unto it. There was a family walking by and when she said his name this man’s eyes just got so big! He completely lit up. He said, “Are you Nik Turley?” and proceeded to recruit his four children to take a picture with Nik, explaining to each as he called them that this was Nik Turley and that he pitched in the game tonight. I got handed the keys and the phone and the wallet. Typical. But do you know I never felt even a little bit slighted. I was so proud to see those strangers excited to take a picture with MY fiancé. It was amazing. My almost husband has fans. Fans! I just smiled and smiled. I’m sure there will come a point when I feel overlooked and underappreciated in comparison to a big time pro baseball player but right now I’m soaking it all in. Getting to watch him be recognized and admired is just another gift the baseball gods have given me to keep up morale during this long, difficult journey.

P.S. Sorry these last two posts have been so mushy! I guess I’m getting more tender-hearted in my old age. But I’m fairly confident the snark’s not going down without a fight so no worries.

100 Days

Flashback: When I was in first grade, we had a celebration to mark the 100th day of school. All of the first graders were to come to class dressed as if they were 100 years old. I was so excited. I loved dressing up (still do!) and being an old person was going to be the best. I planned on turning my hair gray with baby powder and having an awesome costume. Well, when the big day came around I completely forgot. I came to school to find all of my friends looking like miniature geriatrics. I was crushed but, being an optimistic child, I decided to put on my big coat and hunch over and try to get in the spirit of the thing. When what should happen but one of my teachers walked by and said I hope you realize that that jacket doesn’t make you look old; everyone can tell you forgot to dress up. Kick a girl when she’s down, why don’t you. As I stood in line, on the brink of tears, I thought worst 100 days celebration ever.

Flash forward (great show—you remember it? Tuck and Becca anyone?): Today, very unlike that day over 15 years ago, is the greatest 100 days celebration ever. Because guess who gets married in 100 days? It’s me. I get married in 100 days. Now I don’t want to gush because I kind of find it irritating but will you let me have this moment of sheer girly exhilaration and excitement? Me+Nik=married forever in 100 days. If that just doesn’t put the biggest smile on your face and bring the greatest joy to your soul, you are the Grinch and your heart is three (two?) sizes too small. But no matter. You could not rain on my Getting Married in 100 Days Parade even if you tried. And do you know why? Because I’m getting married in 100 days to, first of all, the best looking guy in baseball (you can argue but there’s no point-‘tis a fact) who also happens to be funny and strange (in a good way) and caring and kind and creative and loyal and, above all, my very best friend. So here’s to 100 days! Now, the real countdown begins.