I was watching an HBO documentary on the Boston Redsox. They were giving the whole story of the team, from the curse of the Bambino (the sultan of swat) to the 2004 playoffs, in which they pulled off one of the greatest comebacks in sports history. They were interviewing people about their love for the BoSox, and how heartbroken they were when the Mets came back to crush their hopes in the ’86 series. (sports nuts can correct if I have the wrong year.) The interview told of what it was like to have parents die having never seen their team win. 2004 season momentos were offered at the tombstones of lost loved ones. I identified most closely with the vehement hatred that the Boston fans have for the Yankees. For that reason, alone, it was a compelling story.
I live with a girl who just doesn’t understand. Don’t get me wrong. I love my roommate. But as the story came to a breath taking close, I heard her in the other room. “I don’t know what you’re watching, but it sounds really boring.” She said these words as she turned the corner to see me, sitting cross-legged, tears streaming down my face.
I love baseball. It is a part of my family identity. It is a part of my American identity. And I dare say that God himself loves the smell of wet grass and pine tar.
And so it is with great anticipation and expectations that I welcome the 2006 baseball season. I can’t wait to sit along the 1st base line watching our minor league team hit it out of the Joe, all the while ignoring that they are a NYY affiliate. But I don’t care. I just love to be there. And who knows? Maybe this will be the year my Orioles will stand in the champaign soked locker room come October.