Who the hell do I think I am?

I'm nobody you know. I'm just another self-righteous blogger. I'm not fooled into believing my opinion carries any more weight than yours. Whether or not I'm qualified to have an opinion is itself, well, a matter of opinion, and I'm fine with the argument that I'm not, in fact, thusly qualified.

I do, however, know a great deal about baseball. I've spent a lifetime playing, watching, attending, reading about, and otherwise absorbing myself in the game. At one point in my life--at an age where I should have already known better--I actually thought I could one day be the Jackie Robinson (or even ol' Fleet Walker) of the gender barrier. I understood the laws of physics, physiology and anatomy that declared, for all practical intents and purposes, that I would never play big league baseball, but I wanted to hold onto the dream as long as I could. You can call me an overgrown kid, if you'd like, but don't call me stupid or misguided. I knew it would never happen, but I loved--still love--the game of baseball so much that I catch my breath every time I see the field, cry every time I see the majestic swings of Mickey or Lou or Ted (or Chase), and feel a warmth like none other the first time every spring that I hear the crack of the bat or the pop of the ball in the glove.

I am not a bleacher coach. I despise bleacher coaches. I don't wax philosophical about what Joe Torre should be doing to win (as if he needs me to) or what the Texas Longhorns and Augie Garrido could have done to beat Paul Mainieri and LSU. I don't question the opening day rosters or the mid-season moves. I'm (in)famous for saying to the bleacher coaches, "If you know so much, why aren't you the one being paid to make those decisions?" Of course I might see things differently than Torre or Garrido or any number of others from the outside, but I never forget that "outside" really is where I am. I don't know what really goes on in the clubhouse, the front office, the dugout, the weight room, or even the field during a game. I recognize that what I have to say about the game is conjecture at best, wishful thinking at worst.

I do get heavily involved, though. I love choosing a player for one reason or another and just following his season, the ups and downs, the trades, the rumors, and (god forbid) the injuries. I want the story of the player. Ever since I had to give up playing, it's worked as kind of a surrogate season for me. I seem to be drawn to guys who remind me of myself when I was on the field. It keeps me close to it in some strange way. This year, the target of my scouting report and box score obsession is a AA Southern Leaguer named Evan Frey who plays center field for the Mobile BayBears (Arizona Diamondbacks). I'm sure I'll mention him again, but the overview is this: great defensive player, excellent arm, blazing speed, streaky at the plate. I see something in him, though, and that's why I keep my eye on him. Without him even realizing it, what he does on the field helps me feel like part of the game.

I understand how cheesy that can sound, but truly, for me, it's really about loving something. Baseball and I have had the kind of relationship that inspires sappy movies. There have been good times, bad times, separations, reunions, and awkward sexual advances. Most recently, I spent four seasons having an affair with baseball while my real-life, human significant other sat at home, thinking he had nothing to worry about. I realize that the last four sentences just made me sound like I should be writing this from a very white, very soft room, so allow me to tell this tale.

Now bear with me; this is by no means a mushy love story. I promise. I wouldn't do that to myself, let alone you.

I met someone five years ago who seemed like a great catch. He was good-looking, smart, had a great sense of humor, college educated...blah, blah, blah. As I'm notorious for viewing dating "like a guy," it took a while for me to give it a shot. When I finally did, we had a great time, and I even wondered why I hadn't tried this whole "relationship" thing earlier. There was, however, the faintest little mysterious objection in the deepest reaches of my mind. I couldn't quite figure out what this hunch was trying to tell me, so I just attributed it to commitment issues.

It was July when I learned what that objection was all about. The radio station where we both worked organized an outing to a Minor League game. Of course I was excited, but when I shared my enthusiasm with this guy, he actually said these words: "Screw baseball. It's stupid, it's boring, and the players are all douchebags. Anyone can play it; it's easy. Baseball is for wusses. I'm just going for the free beer." I would have been less stung if he'd said, "Your ass is fat, and I'm sleeping with your mom." Let's dissect that horrible speech piece by piece, shall we?

1. "Screw baseball. It's stupid, it's boring..." --Screw you, pal! People only say things are stupid when they don't know enough about them to say anything better than that. Oh, and boring? Red Barber once said, "Baseball is dull only to dull minds," dummy. Say what you want about the "lulls" between innings, but there is never a moment during play when nothing at all is happening. You just have to know what to look for, and only a dull mind would miss that.

2. "...and the players are all douchebags." --First of all, do you know every person who's ever played the game? How can you say they're all douchebags? Second, some of the most extraordinary people in my life have played the game of baseball. Does that mean I find "douchebags" extraordinary?

3. "Anyone can play it; it's easy." --Right, buddy. How can anything be easy when you have one fifth of a second to think about doing something, decide to do it, and actually do it? From the defensive side, I read a nice long book by Mike Stadler that says that, in concept, fielding a baseball is actually kind of unnatural (it's called The Psychology of Baseball: Inside the Mental Game of the Major League Player; you should grab it). And don't get me started on pitching. Good pitching takes a baffling amount of talent.

4. "Baseball is for wusses." --Tell that to Ryan Howard or Jonathan Broxton. Hell, tell that to Tim Lincecum or Dustin Pedroia. People who say that are people who couldn't hit the ball off of the tee when they were four years old or cried when they got hit by a Little League "fastball."

5. "I'm just going for the free beer." --Alright, I can't argue with free beer.

Now, for what I really said...

"Oh, okay. Well, I think it'll be fun. I love baseball."

Really?! That's how I defend the love of my life? "I think it'll be fun." I should have been hit by a Joel Zumaya heater right then and there! Hey, in my defense, I was in that stage of the relationship where compromises don't seem like a big deal, so I chose not fighting with him about it for the sake of our...whatever...it was stupid.

It gets worse. This was in 2004, and something big happened in baseball that year. Something big happens in baseball every year, but in 2004, it was something even a Yankees fan like myself had to tip her cap to. Come on; eighty-six years is a long time.

It was October, and my radio station was working the county fair. We had to keep the van tuned to our own frequency, so there was no way to listen to Boston in the World Series. A couple of the guys solved that problem by bringing a portable TV out to the grounds and huddling around it. Naturally, I joined them so I, too, could see the making of history and cry the way most women do at the end of Fried Green Tomatoes. I enjoyed myself thoroughly, and then I went home.

At first, I couldn't figure out why he was being what can only be called "pissy." Finally, after an hour or two of slamming things and the silent treatment, the tongue-lashing began. He attacked the game of baseball and how "lame" it was and how he didn't know why people cared about something so stupid. He called it a redneck game and a couple other not-so-nice things, and I finally had to ask him about the motivation for his violent hatred. To this day, when I recall his answer, I hear it in the voice of a 7-year-old who just got pushed off of a swing. "It's just stupid, and anyone who likes it is a loser."

Yes, little boy, but why don't you like it?

"Because it's just gay, and it's played by fags."

Okay, no reason to turn this into a hate crime. What does that mean? What made you hate something this much? Maybe the moment he used this set of words as a descriptor, I should have walked out the door. Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome.

"I just think it's f@c%ing stupid."

At that point, I gathered that I'd never get a real answer, so I dropped it. To this day, in fact, I have never been given an explanation. It's much less relevant now; it's more of a curiosity thing these days. I realized something at that point. I realized that I would have to try to find a way to balance my love of baseball with my love of this knucklehead. It can work, right?

I was reduced, for the rest of the Series, to bribing vendor booths at the fair with free CDs and Hardee's coupons to let me sneak in to watch the game with them so he wouldn't see me. I actually felt dirty, but I felt dirty in the best imaginable way. I was watching baseball; I was watching history.

Skip ahead to the next few seasons when I resorted to sneaking to baseball games, telling him I was going to grab coffee with the girls. I would then disappear for three to four hours only to return with a nice red tint to my face. Boy, was that some hot, hot coffee! One year for my birthday, when my mom asked me what I wanted, I answered without hesitation, "I want to go to a baseball game and not have to hide it." That's what I did. My mom came to visit, we went to a game, and we told him. He wouldn't show his ass in front of my mom, now, would he?

No, but he did when she left. Again, he went with the, "only douchebags play baseball," mantra. That's what he stuck with for four seasons while we were together. I was really stuck in a weird place because I really did care about him, but I felt like a huge part of me had died. I guess I always knew it wouldn't work with him, but it wasn't until the final year that I realized that only one love could survive. It would have to be him or baseball.

Things got progressively worse with us for a number of reasons, and when he left this past November, I did the obligatory mourning thing, and then a light bulb went off. I could go to as many baseball games as I wanted. Hell, I could have baseball games in my bathroom for all it mattered now! I could hardly contain my excitement, and February 22nd couldn't arrive fast enough (that was the first game of the University of South Alabama schedule).

I finally had it back! I knew I was different immediately, but I soon began to realize that other people saw it in me, too. Even my mom looked at me at a game and said, "You're happy." I was. I really was. I'll never get back the time I lost sneaking around or missing out entirely just to avoid a fight, but I will also never be without the game again as long as I live. Baseball is who I've always been, from the days when I used to sit in my room drawing Major League team logos and watching the Cubs (or White Sox) on WGN to crying during Game 7 of the 1992 NLCS when Pittsburgh fell to Atlanta (again). Baseball is who I am, from sneaking off to South Alabama games under the guise of "girl talk" to finally being able to spend every home game perched in my seat down the right field line at Hank Aaron Stadium in 2009. Baseball is who I will be, as I start to think I should use my broadcasting experience and my knowledge of the game to create a younger, female version of Peter Gammons...or just make sure I pass this on to my kids some day.

Friends have often called me Annie Savoy (Bull Durham), and at first, I took offense to that. She was a little bit on the crazy side, and I've never made a pitcher wear women's underwear or breathe through his eyelids. Then I got to thinking a little, and I'm okay with it. It was Annie, after all, who said, "I believe in the church of baseball."

And I do. God, it feels good to touch home.