On baseball

It's five am and the G train, of course, is not running. I've been up all night watching DVR'd playoff games at Chippy's apartment, eating pate and cornichons and watching Jose Valverde's ocd meltdown at the hands of Coco Crisp. I decide, fuck it, I'll walk home.

The "city that never sleeps" thing is not a thing. Thirty-year-old millionaires and their babies slumber over Fifth Ave. Only Arecibo cars prove that Park Slope is breathing.

I march myself home. The corner store is open- it's always open- but I don't need fizzy water, so I unlock the five locks between the street and my bed.

--

I've been in school, off and on, for 26 years. For most of these, I've been passing the hours by writing out the Seattle Mariners 25-man roster, and sometimes the entire 40-man roster, and when this gets dull, the 40-man roster as I think it should be.

I studied abroad in Argentina and happened into summer break between the months of January and March. I spent the first month traveling on overnight buses through Chile and Peru. When I got tired, I took a cheap studio apartment on Avenida Santa Fe in Buenos Aires.

To occupy myself in the months of February and March, I printed out statistics for each of the Mariners minor league affiliates from the previous three seasons. I reviewed the statistical progress of each of the 150 minor leaguers and assigned them between A, AA, and AAA leagues.

When classes resumed, I enrolled in statistics. This is the only class I've ever failed.

--

Most people don't stay up at night thinking about what job they'll have 14 months in the future. It's not a normal way to live, not a good way to live.

I'm training for a half-marathon to take my mind off this particular anxiety loop and it's working. I get home from school late and run around Prospect Park three times. Afterward, I'm hungry. I find a slice join on Fifth Ave that's broadcasting the games. The slice joint has a pasta menu so I order penne alla vodka. It comes with garlic knots and salad and enough pasta to feed an army. The best thing is how the slice guy treats me special because I order from the pasta menu- "everything good boss?"

I stick around and watch the Cardinals pull out a game 5 victory over the Nationals.

--

I started fourth grade at a new school in Corvallis, Oregon. It took a minute to make friends. We all loved baseball cards.

One kid had a binder full of Mark McGuire and Jose Canseco rookie cards. I kept up with Beckett Monthly- the '87 Topps with the gold trophy on the bottom right was worth $3, maybe $4, depending on the month. The kid didn't know anything, so he traded his rookie cards away for Bobby Bonillas, candy, whatever. He was a chump.

It turns out that he got the cards from an uncle or somebody who knew their value. When the uncle found out, he insisted that the chump kid get his cards back. I didn't understand. My dad took me to the McDonalds and explained it to me, and it's the first time I remember the expression, "when the shit hits the fan." I gave the kid his cards back, I guess, because the shit hit the fan.

--

The Pathmark in Gowanus sells packs of '87 Topps for .75. When I can't sleep, I walk down and buy a pack or three or five. When I open them, it's a hasty rush of instant gratification- I feel hot and confused and excited.

It would be totally unsatisfying, except that I'm doing now what 10-year-old me would have wanted 31-year-old me to do. Here's to you, kid.

--

Most of my adult friends are not baseball fans in the way that I'm a baseball fan. They do not buy baseball cards, they don't get the helmet full of ice cream at the Mets games, and the don't memorize the statistics of minor leaguers. Most of them don't even know how important it is to me.

During finals in our 2L year, the Mariners were playing the Yankees in the Bronx, and I eyed the schedule and saw that King Felix was scheduled to pitch. We got a group together and made it up to the Bronx, finals be damned.

Early in the game, Alex Rodriguez doubled his way to second base. The next batter lined a single to Mike Carp in left field. As A-Rod barreled home, the stadium drew silent, except for one Mariner fan in the upper deck. I leapt to my feet, anticipating the throw home, and screamed, "F*ck you, you fat motherf*cker." When I realized that the voice was my own, I was mortified. My party apologized to the family next to us.

The Mariners lost, 6-2.

--

This weekend I have to make a critical decision. More precisely, the decision has been made, and I need to learn to love it.

I don't care much for the Giants, but I'm not trying to be a Tigers fan either. I'd like to see some good baseball games. When I watch the Giants sweep, I'm happy for Sergio Romo and Pablo Sandoval, who seem like genuinely humble, happy people.

The decision is made, the letters sent, the future slightly circumscribed. It's amazing how knowing that one thing will happen makes me wonder about all the other things that will happen.

I resent the World Series for ending so quickly- a fifth game would have been a welcome distraction from Sandy. And I worry about the months between now and March, the endless refreshing of mlbtraderumors.com, the wool sock mornings with no box scores. But I know that I'll be excited about the Mariners again in March, that I'll think this will be the year, that this whole wonderful, unpredictable thing will happen again.