Learning to Love Baseball

I've never been the athletic type. In junior high, we had to run the 50-yard dash. I did, sort of. I fell down and skinned my knee so badly I had to stay home for a few days with my leg up on the couch. In high school, in gym class one day we played football. I knew absolutely nothing about football. The teacher told me I was a linebacker. Yeah, so? Occasionally we did exercises. You know, like jumping jacks and sit ups. Those I could do. One day she sprung a new one us. Coordination. You had to move your arms one way and your legs another while jumping up and down. Sure. I ended up a pile of arms and legs. I'm pretty sure they were all mine.

I'm barely graceful. I regularly trip over the middle of the floor. Running into the corner of the wall - do it all the time. Missing my mouth with my fork - normal. Straws have a nasty tendency to go up my nose, rather than in my mouth. I go through a lot of straws. My idea of exercise is shopping.

I have two sisters, no brothers. My father wasn't particularly athletic. I remember him watching the occasional game on TV but I have no idea what team he cheered for. I didn't grow up with sports. So, when I married my husband, who is a rabid St. Louis Cardinals fan, I had no idea what I was getting into. I thought, no big deal, he'll watch the games on TV, I can handle that. Little did I know that I would grow to love baseball, the Cardinals in particular and that I would watch games on TV even when he wasn't home, and that going to St. Louis for a game ranks right up there with shopping at The Plaza.

Being newlyweds, of course I wanted to watch the game with him! I wanted to be where he was. All the time. But along the way, a funny thing happened. I learned to love baseball. I take credit for their having won the 2006 World Series - the first year I was a fan. I know it was my cheering - which hadn't been present before - made the difference.

Learning to love the game, however, that credit goes to my husband. He patiently answered all my questions, pointed out things I needed to learn to notice, and explained a myriad of terms to me. He didn't mind my comments on a players hair, or a big butt. He wasn't bothered by my outbursts of laughter when 'Joe Smith is getting loose in the bullpen' and all I could think of was some poor guy tied up in there, struggling to get free. He didn't care when I made fun of their names, or pointed out weird people in the stands. I've learned that they don't call the game for rain on account of the players, but on account of the Field! They don't want it messed up! Who knew?

He patiently waited until I could remember that the 'points' were Runs, not points. That the ref was an Umpire, not a referee. He's explained the infield fly rule to me about a dozen times, and I still don't get it. Forget the 'balk'. Or is it 'bok'? I don't know. I've seen the Umpire call it several times, I can never figure out what it is the pitcher is doing wrong. Truthfully, I don't care.

I watch the game to enjoy it. To spend time with my husband and to be able to talk with him intelligently about baseball. I love going to St. Louis to see the game. It's a fun weekend with the hotel, the eating out and maybe going to the Zoo or the Mall.

I'm going to be fifty years old this year, and in all my life, I never thought I'd love a sport. One thing certain about life is that it always changes.