Yes, I am a baseball fanatic–not a mere “fan.” I’m one of those crazy people who understands why Benjamin Sisco keeps a baseball on his desk in Star Trek: DS9. I actually believe all the mystical mumbo-jumbo in every baseball movie ever made. I own not one but TWO decks of baseball-themed tarot cards: The Tarot of Baseball and The Baseball Tarot. (If anyone knows of others, please let me know.) Now that we live near Cincinnati, my Mother’s Day gift is tickets to see my beloved Reds.
Both my kids are in their fourth year of Little League baseball. Last year they fell into the same age division and were thus on the same team. This offers clear and compelling (to me) evidence of the existence of the gods of baseball: having only one team schedule to follow left me time to grapple with some serious health issues I was facing.
This year the older child has moved up into the highest age division, the major league, while the younger child remained in the minor league. This means that, between practices and games for the two teams, I can count on one hand the number of days each month we will NOT be at the ballpark.
Both teams have played their season openers, and both won. Hurray! I have now logged the first four of 75+ hours (not counting the playoffs) I will spend on unforgiving aluminum bleachers, eating hotdogs and giant pretzels, rain or shine. I feel ridiculously and unaccountably euphoric.
It’s baseball season. And I’m in heaven.
Thank the baseball gods.