I am a delicate flower.
It's too much.
Of what do I speak? Politics? Climate change? Crime in our city? Bunions?
Oh, no. I speak of something much, much, much more intense. Much more stressful. Much more personal.
Post season MLB baseball, that's what. Or, more specifically: the Cubs playing in post season baseball.
During last night's game, I read a book and had the wife flipping between the Cubs game and the Badgers college football game. I needed to do all three lest I spontaneously combust.
I.am.a.delicate.flower.
The wife laments that I don't get excited during sporting events. She hoots and hollers and yells while watching beloved sporting events on TV. Me? I sit there, seemingly emotionless, reading a book. She wonders why I don't give her a high five after a great play. She asks how I can sit there and read a book while "my" team is on, playing in a game of which I have waited so long.
What I am REALLY doing is trying not to throw up, trying not to let my very being burst into flames, trying not to go into A-fib.
Now, real life is much more important to me than any sporting event. I don't usually talk in the terms of "we" when referring to a team. "We" is reserved for family and friends, for people I actually know, for people who have something to do with my real life. A professional sporting team is not a "we." It is "they." I don't understand people who say "we" when referring to something that really has no bearing on their "real" life.
And yet, a few sentences ago, I used the word "my" in reference to "my" team. Go figure.
Perhaps my "my" is fueled by a kindred spirit-ship to Cubbie Blue fans who have followed the Cubs through a century of losses. Perhaps I like pin stripes. Hard to say. Side note: I LOVE the way bleacher bums at Wrigley throw opposing team home run balls back onto the field. This.is.GENIUS. It is on par with that leaping that goes on in the Cheddarlands. No one dare keep a home run ball at Wrigley. No one. They will throw YOU onto the field if you don't get rid of that evilness that is visiting your sacred space. I love that. North-siders, you do me proud.
Being that last night's home opener against the Dodgers was on a Saturday night, I actually had a prayer of watching the entire game. (Remember: I am a delicate flower. I can't stay up late watching those late-late night games on school nights.) I settled in: I purchased a book to read on my tablet, grabbed a snack, checked my email and turned my eyes toward the screen.
I should have known everything was going to be all right once I spied Charlie Hustle on the network's announcer team. You can't go wrong when Pete Rose is in town. The guy is hilarious. (He should also be in the hall of fame, but that's a whole different discussion for a different day.) He's a hot mess who brings much laughter, rough-around-the-edges with badly dyed hair. He makes it possible for me to watch as much as I dare. He is awful and wonderful at the same time. A dialectic to embrace.
Despite it being a Saturday night, I could only take so much. I was so glad the Badgers were playing at the same time because that meant the wife was flipping back and forth between games. I was so glad that my no-brainer book kept my interest at times I dare not look at the screen. Even so, I couldn't take it and announced I was going to bed.D.E.L.I.C.A.T.E.
I wasn't tired. I wasn't tired at all. I didn't need to go to bed; yet, I went to bed. I did not turn back. I did not have a need to turn on the TV or go on line to see what was transpiring. When those relief pitchers start hitting the mound, it's time to go to bed. (I am NOT a fan of this ridiculous one-pitcher-per batter relief thing that teams now do. It seems to work. I do not understand it, I do not like it, I do not embrace it.)
The wife is stunned by decisions such as this. She cannot fathom turning off a Packer game in such a situation. And yet, there I was, cleaning up and heading upstairs. I did not know the result of the game until the wife turned on the television in the morning and let me know that a grand slam saved the day.
Oh dear god. A grand slam. I can barely breathe when watching the highlights. Most people would be distraught--mortified-- that they went to bed before such a wondrous feat. Not me. It reinforced my decision. Once the game was tired up and they were going through pitchers like water, I would have needed anti-anxiety medication (intravenously--no time for a pill to take hold).
I know my viewing habits would be different if we were at a party or if watching the game with other people or if I were actually present at the playoff game. I would crawl my way through the last batter. Perhaps that is the key--to watch the game with a pack of pinstripes.
I shall not look ahead. I shall not speak of future games. I shall focus on the game of this day. Of this series. Of this moment. I will scan social media, pausing for a dot when an article or a replay or a post warrants a pause. I will accept invitations to watch games with others or... if given tickets... attend a game and watch every pitch, right through the final out. But, if I'm at home on my couch, I will do what I can to watch and go to bed when I no longer can. I will wear my Cubs paraphernalia and think of Steve Goodman and thank the baby Jesus for Joe Madden (even though he subscribes to that ridiculous relief pitcher way of being). I will laugh at Pete Rose and he will laugh at me.
Pete's no delicate flower.
Today, I will hum in my head the song of which emanates from the friendly confines after a victory. I will not hum it aloud. I will not admit to humming it silently within my being. But, I will be humming it. I will smile when humming and I will do what I can to prepare for the game tonight. I'll have to buy another book and I'm glad NFL football will also be on--flipping between games will save my very being from having a nuclear meltdown. I will watch as much of the game as I possibly can, even though it's a school night. I will watch and I will hum and I will go to bed when I can't take one more pitch.
"Go, Cubs, go!
Go, Cubs, go!
Hey, Chicago, what do you say?
The Cubs are gonna win today."
May the spirits of Harry Carey and Steve Goodman fill my very being today.
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