Not a Fan

About eight months before Nik and I started dating, I made a list of my “weird” qualities (don’t ask why—I have no answer). I thought, someday I’ll show this to a guy and he’ll love me because of or in spite of all these little quirks and I’ll know he’s a keeper. And do you know what #18 was? ‘I hate baseball and I don’t think that will ever change.’ And isn’t life just so funny? Because Nik, the baseball player, was the first guy I ever showed that list to. He stopped at #18 and gave me a little smile. I half shrugged and said it’s still true.

Now, almost two and a half years have gone by and I’ve been to more baseball games than I ever thought possible. I love supporting Nik. I love watching him play. I do not love baseball. When he leaves the game, all of a sudden things become a lot less exciting.

I know. I know. This nation was founded on baseball and apple pie, blah, blah, blah. How can you be so un-American? Well, in my defense, I didn’t come from a baseball family or a baseball town—both excellent contributors to and predictors of an avid baseball fan. So, you see, it’s not my fault. It’s a mixture of nature and nurture. I was doomed from the start.

When Nik was with the Tampa Yankees, I routinely showed up during the eighth or ninth inning at homestands. Sometimes I missed the game entirely (whoops!) and rolled into the stadium as the crowds (read: all 200 people) were exiting and the players were already taking their showers. Divine providence is what I called those days.

Before that, I spent much of the games fidgeting restlessly, people watching and wandering around the stadium after the third or fourth inning. I’ve lobbied to reduce all games to six innings but the feedback has been mostly negative so far.

But the truth is, even if you’re a baseball fanatic, over 100 games a season is a bit much. It all starts to get a hazy, Groundhog Day feeling about it. And, in fact, did I ever tell you Bill Murray was one of the part owners of the Riverdogs and I saw him at a game? Semi-irrelevant but exciting all the same, don’t you think?

Anyway, I just hope I can make some good friends among the baseball WAG set soon or these next few (5, 10, 15?) years will be akin to a daily turn in a medieval torture chamber. That was a bit over the top. More accurately, the years will be like a compulsory yet pointless office teleconference. So, for my sanity and the safety of those around me, wish me luck in my quest to widen my circle of WAGs.

If I'm not careful, this will be me soon. Stealing groundhogs and going insane.

Four guys, a girl and an air mattress

I will tell you now, every baseball wag will nod at that title in resigned understanding. If you’ve dated anyone ever, you’ve probably encountered some issues with roommates. But oh do they raise the stakes in baseball. Contrary to what you might think, Nik and his teammates do not throw cash in the face of passer-bys or roll around at their cribs in dolla, dolla bills ya’ll. I don’t have exact statistics for you, but they might get paid less than migrant farm workers.

So, how do these boys save money, you wonder. Well, on housing of course. Nik, for example, has slept on an air mattress in the living room this entire season. That sacrifice was rewarded by a reduction in rent compared to his roommates. Worth it? I’m not convinced but he sure thinks so. Do you know how fun it is when you want to watch a movie after dinner and you arrive to find 20 drunk people, at least five of whom you’ve never seen before, hanging out in (for all intents and purposes) your bedroom? Super fun is the correct answer of course.

Currently, Nik gets to share the living room with a fellow pitcher, also sleeping in style on an air mattress. They have no dishes. I take that back, they have plastic utensils. I try to avoid going to the bathroom if it’s anything less than an emergency because I have to wash my hands with Dawn and I’m scared that whatever decorates the toilet bowl is going to give me a disease. There is no furniture unless you count the air mattresses and two cheap red papasan chairs (Google it). There is no internet (thank heavens for an iPhone) but they do have cable (!).

In the old apartment, there were also no lights in the living room, which created a nice ambience of romance and horror movie. There was a lamp at one point but it was commandeered to light the bedroom of someone whose lamp met an untimely end. I’ll give you a hint, it was Mr. B. in the bedroom with the golf club.

Anyway, the living situation of your average minor leaguer is not ideal, to say the least. But our quality of life will improve significantly once we get married (at least we will probably have dishes and lights). I once heard a story of a WAG who lived with her baseball husband and three other players even after they were married. I can only say that I might rather chew off my own arm than take part in that arrangement. I’m sure we’ll look back on these frat house roommate days with affection some day. Some day in the very, very distant future.

That's kinda what Nik's bed looks like.

Oh and adding to the humor (is this funny?) of all this, Nik’s air mattress groans every time he moves. Adding to the disgustingness, I once found a dead bug on said air mattress. Classy Nikolas.

So You Want to Marry a Baseball Player

Or maybe (probably) you don’t. You see, marrying a baseball player is much trickier than you would think. At the beginning of this season, Nik was assigned to play in Charleston. We hoped/wished/prayed that he would get moved up to Tampa during the season but nothing’s certain in baseball so we prepared for the worst (that he would be in Charleston the whole year) and planned wedding activities accordingly.

We took our engagement pictures during Spring Training (because the other option –taking pictures by myself and photoshopping him in—seemed unappealing for some reason). We also registered in March (my favorite plates from Crate and Barrel are now gone-sad) when our minds were so far away from this wedding and having a household that we mostly wandered around with Nik insisting that we needed at least one more trivet and two ice cream scoops. Thank goodness this process can also be completed online. And, if you’re thinking, why didn’t you just do the whole thing online or without Nik…well, let’s just say someone was very excited to be in possession of a scanner gun and I’m not one to deny people the privilege of simple joys.

The timing, as are most things in our life, was also dictated by baseball. I had always dreamed of being a May bride. That’s when my parents got married and isn’t May just the best month you can imagine? Well, that dream died. Because, you know, trying to squeeze in a cross-country wedding on an off-day seemed to require a degree of effort we were not willing to put forth. Not to mention, a very-delayed honeymoon. So we had exactly four and a half months to choose from. But the closer you get to Spring Training—the dicier things get what with having to be on the throwing and work out program and all that. So it was decided. October it was and, you know, that’s not such a bad month. In fact, it’s my second favorite after May so it all works out but then…

Nik got hurt. He pitched 80-something innings when he was supposed to pitch 125. They can make up for that in baseball-it’s called Instructional League (Instructs is what the cool kids say). They bring new draftees who didn’t play a whole season or injured players or other such types back to Tampa for something akin to a fall spring training. And do you know when it starts? Well, neither do I. These baseball people tell you nothing…never mind that you have a LIFE to plan here. I do know when it ends though. October 7. As in one day before our wedding (we have to be there at 8AM Saturday, October 8). We’re hoping the coordinators will be nice enough to let Nik leave in time for us to take care of, I don’t know, the little details like our marriage license.

In conclusion, it appears to be easier to marry not a baseball player than the alternative. But, hey, no one ever said moving up in the world of WAGdom was easy.

Almost Famous

Sorry for the lack of content lately. I was going to make up an excuse about why I haven't written anything but, upon a thorough self-evaluation, I accepted that it is because I am lazy. BUT I did want to tell you that today, for the first time, I have been published as a guest blogger. The proof is here!

If you read my blog, the post on there is the same as one I've written here so it's nothing new but still...pretty exciting eh? And about that Web site. It's run by Elliot Johnson's (Rays) wife Nicole and has all sorts of stories from baseball WAGs. If you want to learn more about the lifestyle and I'm just not giving you what you need, you can browse there. I kind of promise that I'll write something exciting soon.

The End...and Yet the Beginning

Well, friends, it’s time. I’ve been waiting three weeks to get some distance and perspective to be able to write this post (for Nik’s sake, not my own). Sometimes in life, and baseball, unfortunate things happen. Like a season-ending injury, like perhaps a broken finger on your pitching hand. And that’s exactly where we currently find ourselves. On the DL. As in disabled list. As in, Nik’s season is pretty officially over.

This all happened three weeks ago-in St. Lucie. Luckily or maybe unluckily I was there. I saw the whole thing happen. I shot to the edge of my seat when that ball came back and hit him. Nik’s no whimp and when I saw that grimace I knew something was very wrong. In an instant, I felt everything I knew he was feeling. It was automatic empathy. The disappointment, the frustration, the discouragement. I like to think everything hit us in waves at the same time even though I was in the stands and he was in the clubhouse. I texted him immediately, are you okay? He responded that he thought so. It was swollen but they would look at it again in the morning.

Well, the morning brought no improvement. And let me interject here with the fact that he had an outline of the baseball stitches on his hand—that’s how hard it him. The trainer, Scotty, asked if I would take him to urgent care. After some poking and prodding from the doctor, he went in to get some x-rays. The doctor, clearly SO not understanding what this would mean to Nik, came back in and said well, you have a fracture! While Nik tried to talk his way out of having a splint or taking any official action to heal his hand, my heart sank. His face, oh it makes me almost tear up just thinking about it.

So here we are, three weeks later, with Nik still sporting a cute little splint. He said he felt ridiculous and grown people shouldn’t have casts. That may be true but he just looks so dang cute and helpless in it. It should come off either next week or the week after but he’ll still need to be taped and won’t be able to throw. So no more outings (which doesn’t mean no more training and lifting and running by the way). He finished the season (combined stats for both teams) with a 4-6 record, a 2.81 ERA in 89.2 innings with 28 earned runs, 22 walks and 87 strike outs. I couldn’t be prouder of him!

I’ve learned a lot in the last few weeks about the difficulties of the DL. First, you have to figure out how to be supportive and encouraging while not minimizing the fact that this is a huge disappointment and a major setback. Second (I’m horrible I know), you have to figure out how to maintain feeling bad that this happened when every bone in your body is rejoicing to have him back in your life. We get to go to dinner and the movies and people’s wedding receptions and date night. We get to see each other at times other than 10 PM. It’s amazing. But if you’re too excited, it feels awfully insensitive. Sometimes I wonder if the secret (or maybe not-so-secret) wish of my heart to spend more time with Nik caused this whole mess. Well, I’d just feel really guilty then, wouldn’t I?

And one can’t go around feeling guilty about such things as the secret wishes of one’s heart. So I determined to believe that nothing’s as black and white as it seems. There’s a whole lot of gray in the world of baseball. This injury is actually factually simultaneously the best and worst thing that’s happened this season. And how does that work? I certainly don’t know-it’s one of those mysteries of the universe like string theory and why people like Justin Bieber. But I do know it’s possible to find good in everything (don’t’ believe me? Take it up with ABBA) that happens in our lives. And I couldn’t be more grateful for this hidden blessing.

Old News

I’ve noticed a funny pattern in my life lately. Nik and I have been dating for over two years and, you know, sometimes I like to try to fool myself into thinking he’s old news. Those blue eyes and easy smile have no power over me I say. He’s tall and handsome and dreamy (a co-worker used that term, I am not biased). So what? Big deal. But you know, every night when I walk into the stadium lamenting to myself, another day, another baseball game, I stop short. Because as soon as I see that guy leaning on the dugout rail my heart just absolutely melts. I light up inside—I can actually feel it, like the beast’s transformation back to his princely self, I know streams of luminosity (great word) will start shooting out of my appendages at any moment. I smile and watch him WAY more than the game. I get happy when he smiles, interested when he’s deep in conversation, a little weirded out when he slaps people’s butts. And the game never ends soon enough.

I like to think I still play everything so cool. This is contradicted by the almost frantic way I grab my phone every time it dings with the expectation that he’s sent me a text. And the way I sometimes wait at the edge of my driveway when he’s on his way over. And, for good measure, the way I latch onto him like one of those creepy sloths when he tries to leave (actually, that only happened last night but I thought it might be a fun image for everyone). So much for old news, huh?

Not that I’m mad. I’m over the moon that Nik still makes me swoon. I expect it to continue forever. But I think a little credit is due to baseball. People often say you don’t know what you got til it’s gone (at least the Counting Crows say that and maybe John Mayer and also Joni Mitchell?). Anyway, Nik and I are very aware of what it’s like when we’re gone. Baseball gives us a lot of grief but it also constantly gives us a chance to miss each other. Every stolen second is treasured because they’re so sporadic and unplanned—at least for seven months out of the year. And even in the offseason, I feel like I have to soak in every minute and record every feeling and memory so I can play them back when he’s gone. It’s hard to be apart but it makes being together so much sweeter. So thanks, baseball, for not letting my man become old news.

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?