You Always Remember Your First
I can’t complain about my life. I’m not over worked or over burdened. I’m pretty well off, as are my friends and family. This year at school has been far and away the best of college. Aside from a disasterous class on Volcanoes/Earthquakes (More like natural diasterous!) I’ve pretty much enjoyed everything I took this year. When things have been going so well in general the small problems become more painfully obvious. I am (unhappily) single, a point that was brought to a head on the train last night. Cornered against a window by an older couple next to me cuddling, a couple of kids in high school going at it in front of me and an ipod completely drained by my drunken commute home days earlier, I was forced to face the most unsatisfactory facet of my life. (That was until I heard the rustling of a belt in front of me, at which point I just put my head against the window and closed my eyes until I heard “This is a train to Port Washington, the next stop is Bayside!”) Surrounded by these couples on the train, got me feeling Nostalgic for my own first love.
I’ve been in a handful of serious relationships, I’ve been in and out of love, and I’ve been through unrequited crushes. The one constant through all of that though has been Baseball. I met Baseball back in 1995. I was an impressionable youth. Baseball was coming off a troubled strike marred year. My dad introduced us with a box of baseball cards we opened together, and a computer game called “Hard Ball 4.” I don’t remember half of the stuff I learned in college but I still remember that the Pirates won the full season of that game I played through. I remember early on thinking a Grand Slam was a HR that you hit when using the “contact” option batting instead of the ”power” option. I even remember the fake team logos since apparently they didn’t have permission to use the real ones. The Dodgers were represented by funky shades green and pink and yellow with silhouttes of palm trees scattered throughout.
The first baseball game I attended was a week before I was born. My parents still riding the high of the Mets’ 86 season went to Shea while my mom was 8+ months pregnant. A Mets employee told my parents if my mom went into labor at the stadium they’d receive lifetime tickets at the stadium, or so the story goes. I think about how that would have changed my baseball fates. Instead the first game I remember was in 1995 at Yankee Stadium. Again, I don’t remember the dates on which I started dating some past girlfriends, but I know for fact that game was September 24th, 1995. It was (at the time) Don Mattingly’s last home game at Yankee Stadium. They ended up making the playoffs, so that didn’t hold up, but I remember following the crowd and standing to clap every time he came to bat even though I wasn’t sure why I was doing this. I remember getting stung by a bee in ear at some point during that game, which come to think of it might explain why my hearing is so awful.
My parents were Met fans throughout the 80’s, but having children seemed to kill any rooting interest in baseball. I don’t know how I ended up being a Yankee fan. It’s easy to call out my 7 year old ass for being a front runner, but Paul O’Neill was my favorite player as a pixelated little man from Hard Ball 4. I remember caring about them before they were winning any World Series, waking my mom up early the morning after game 5 of the ALDS when the Yankees lost to the Mariners to find out what happened. I still remember being suprised by how upset I was watching the clip of the Mariners celebrating after the game being shown on the ABC morning news show.
Disappointment was not a feeling that I associated with baseball much in the coming years. I remember staying up late with my parents to watch Game 6 of the 1996 World Series. Leaving them during the final inning, I watched the end of the game in my room on the floor so excited I couldn’t sit still. A nervous anticipation equalled by the feeling right before you ask a girl out. I remember later that year going as John Wetteland for halloween, a stark contrast to the black power ranger of a year earlier.
I remember my mom being so excited the morning after Dwight Gooden’s no hitter, unaware of his history at the time. I remember seeing David Wells’ perfect game in a pizza place. I remember watching David Wells take a perfect game into the 7th or 8th inning later that season. I sat in my brother’s bed with my mom and brother, burying my head in blankets any time he got deep into a count. I don’t remember the name of my Intro to Poli Sci professor, she was an older blonde woman, but I remember it was Jason Giambi who broke up that perfect game with a single in the 7th or 8th. The next year I remember hearing the call of David Cone’s day of perfection on the car radio during a trip with my dad to PC Richards. I remember thinking you were supposed to see at least one perfect game every year.
2001 taught me about heart break before I ever even knew heart break. The Yankees were representing New York only a month after the twin towers fell, they rallied back in three straight games in the most amazing way I will ever see, Paul O’Neill had already announced his retirement, the pieces were in place, and the script just couldn’t play out in any other way. I remember keeping the scorecard of that final game. I remember watching as the greatest closer to ever pitch, blew what was supposed to be a story book ending. I laid in the top bunk of my bed in a choked up disbelief rivaling my break up a couple of weeks into college.
This relationship goes beyond myself and the Yankees. It’s an open relationship between the sport and I, and it has showed up throughout my life. By chance, or through the divine intervention of those behind TV scheduling, it seemed for a couple of years every time I slept over at my Grandma’s house ”Field Of Dreams” would be on TV. I remember it getting to the point where we were able to recite the upcoming lines to each other. I remember Nanny getting choked up every single time Ray would ask his father to have a catch. I can hear in my mind as I write this James Earl Jones say “Moonlight Gray-ham” as he steps in front of Ray’s van. I can hear it more clearly than the music currently playing from my itunes. I remember on one of my first nights in Binghamton stumbling upon “Field Of Dreams” playing on HBO. I remember never missing my home more than I did at the moment of its’ conclusion.
The Great American Scream Machine (GASM) fantasy baseball league cemented and then maintained friendships from high school that probably would have faded otherwise. GASM is so powerful that according to some it has ruined lives, although I tend to disagree. Stupid trades (Mark Prior for Pat Burrell), Insane predictions (Javy Lopez’s record breaking year), and mindless rambling (Something about Rick Reed’s heart?) shaped many of my best friendships.
Baseball has even fucked with actual relationships I was in. One time I was yelled at because an ex felt I paid too much attention to the games on TV when we were fooling around. In my infinite wisdom I responded by saying that I was able to focus on both at the same time and she shouldn’t feel bad. This did not go over swimmingly. On an early break in college I postponed a late night tryst because Chris Young (one of my boys) was in the midst a perfect game on the west coast. When flipping through channels in an ex’s bed with her one night, I discovered Justin Verlander (another one of my boys) had pitched a no-hitter that day (the first of anyone on my fantasy team). I had to hide the fact that I was getting teary eyed over this revelation, which is insane because I was probably never that emotional with anything related to her over the course of our relationship. Just take a second to let that tidbit seep in.
I remember for my 18th Birthday, Emily, my girlfriend at the time, had gotten us tickets for a subway series game at Shea Stadium. The Yankees trailed the entire game, before rallying in the 9th off Billy Wagner to win. It was one of the few, if not only times my Baseball love life and my actual love life were both perfect, and those tickets remain the best birthday present I’ve ever received.
It is horribly cliched, and corny, and trite to end this mini-epic by saying that when the 2009 season begins tonight, the longing brought about by being single will suddenly be remedied, but it would be just as untrue if I said Baseball’s return wouldn’t Ease My Pain at all either.
