My top 11 pet peeves of baseball

Baseball games are my favorite. I'm so relaxed there. Sometimes I go to an area where no one is sitting (easier to do on the South Side than the North Side) and I don't cheer or talk. I just watch the game. Life can be so stressful.

But some things threaten to ruin that peace I get at games, and here they are. I hate to be negative, but I go to a lot of baseball games and I'm an American, so I have decided that I have the right to criticize everything.

In no particular order:

1. The Wave

 

Here are some very attractive British futbol players, who kept starting the wave at The Cell. No. No no no. I don't care that you are handsome and athletic and British. Okay. I care a lot about that. But it isn't enough for me to sit back and let you lead The Wave at a baseball game. I forgive them, though. It's an American law.

 

 

 

In 2011, the Texas Rangers posted this on the big screen:

 

 

 

Here's the thing about The Wave. It's so dumb. I want to watch the game. And what invariably happens is that at some pivotal moment in the game, the wave starts, and everyone is standing, and I can't see, and everyone is like, "Alex, why don't you do the wave?" And I'm like, "BECAUSE I WANT TO WATCH THE GAME, YOU DUMMY!" And I really do say it in capital letters, although I may not call the person a "dummy," because that is just childish.

 

 

Let's also be practical. A stadium doing the wave is likely to be distracting to the players. Just please stop, okay? Please. I'm begging you. I hate it so much. Just stop.

 

2. The Person on Their Cell Phone the Entire Game

 

Now, I like SnapChat and I will definitely Snap a few Chats at any given moment. I've even been known to tweet my feelings during a game on occasion. Feel free to take 800 million pictures, because you know I will. But what I just don't understand is that person who is on the phone texting and facebooking and tweeting and instagramming their food and taking ENDLESS selfies of themselves with their hair over their shoulder, now in front of their shoulder, now with a duck face, etc.

 

Please just stay home and don't waste your money or your loved one's money. It's annoying to watch. Especially if you came with me, and I am the loved one who wasted my money on you. It actually is painful for me to sit next to someone on a phone the whole time.

 

* side note--I am a total hypocrite because a couple weeks ago, I had a work emergency at a Cubs game, and I spent the whole time on my phone, and I was so annoyed and probably annoying to my dear friends Jamie and Erin. I ended up leaving early. It was the worst, but I had to do it. Here I am with them during a pause from texting:

 

 

 

3. People Who Go Up and Down the Aisles the Entire Game

 

This is one reason I love Target Field. They don't stop you from going up, but you can only go down the aisles between hitters. It's so annoying when you can't see what's going on because someone has to go get their 29th beer. 

 

 

4. Wearing a Rival's Jersey to the Home Team's Game Just to be a Jerkface

 

Here's the thing: If you are from out of town and just want to represent your home team because you're away from home, but enjoying the grand world of baseball, I'm fine with that.

 

Exhibit A:

 

I took a group of high school seniors from Minnesota to some California ballparks. Here we are at a San Francisco Giants game representing the Twins. I don't remember who the Giants were playing that day, but it wasn't the Twins. We were just showing our Minnesota pride and not being purposely jerkfaces.

Also, it's perfectly acceptable to represent your own team when your team is actually playing the home team. If two teams I love are playing each other, I generally represent the visitors, because I feel bad for them and want them to know they are still loved, though in a foreign land.

Exhibit B:

Representing Minnesota at The Cell

Representing the White Sox at Target Field
 

Here's what a think is just kind of mean. I live in the Chicago area, and for some reason, many Cubs and White Sox fans feel that you have to hate one if you love the other (a belief I do not agree with at all--I love them both). So, for some reason, these jabronies will go to a Sox game but wear a Cubs hat or vice versa, no matter what random team the home team is playing. I get it--you NEED attention, you spoiled millennial. But just stay home. Don't waste your money or time spreading your hate. Watch the game or go home! I seriously don't get why they even show up.

Oh, look. Here I am at Busch Stadium, home of the worst team in the world, and I am just wearing flowers, because I'm a nice person and not a hater. They were playing the Reds, and I love the Reds, but I just watched the game in my flowers and cheered for Joey Votto.

Exception: Sometimes you are forced to go to the stadium of a team you hate because someone you love says you have to, or maybe you have to for work or something. I think at that point it is fine to wear your team's gear in a silent protest and sign of your passive resistance. But, full disclosure, I won't know this about you and will still be judging you.

And on that note:

5. Home Fans that are Super Rude to Visiting Fans

I get it. The Cardinals are the worst. But when these weirdos from St. Louis drag their arrogant butts to Chicago, and then they lose, or if our guy hits a home run, just leave it alone. Be the bigger person. Jesting in good fun is fine--but generally, it gets out of hand. One of my friends here in Chicago went to a game with her young daughter, and the Cardinals fans started saying horrible things to this 8-year-old. My friend told them off, because she is amazing and basically a wolf protecting her young, but the damage was done. I have been spit at and had beer thrown on me by White Sox fans who didn't like that I was cheering for the Twins one time and the Astros the other.  Another time I was leaving The Cell in my Twins shirt and a guy came up to me and drunkenly screamed in my face that I was a loser.

I was just silently standing there screaming for George Springer to come over because I am in love with him and also because I wanted to get his autograph on this photo to finish the Astros in it, when the poophead behind me spit in my hair because he said he hated Astros fans because they were all Mexican. It was a weird day.

Again, it's fun to tease. My brother is a Yankees fan and I hate the Yankees, and every year I take him to a Yankees game for his birthday, and every year my team loses to the Yankees, and he teases, and I wish for a different life. But no one spits. No one screams hateful things. I have MANY Cardinal-fan friends, and while I constantly re-evaluate why they are still my friends, we manage to have many good convos about our teams, and surprisingly, no one ever dies.

Minnesota, by the way, is always so welcoming to me, no matter which team I am supporting. Minnesotans are the best people on earth. Take a lesson from them, rest of the world, and make your city proud by welcoming its visitors--especially you, Sox fans! Visiting teams' fans fill up the majority of the sold seats at The Cell!

6. The Traffic Police After Games

I hate that they are always waving at you, annoyed, to blow through the stop sign at 90 mph. I hate their judgmental faces. I'M NOT GOING TO GO 90. STOP MAKING ME FEEL LIKE I HAVE TO.

7. Drunk People

Hi, drunk people. Here's the deal. You are not funny. You are not cute. You are gross and loud and you smell. All I want to do is watch the game, but you are sitting near me yelling gross thing at the players, and I am fairly sure in a few moments when the game ends, you will be getting in your car and driving home, and I am sorry for all of the world who is at your mercy while you are behind the wheel.

I was at this game at The Cell against The Rangers

Here's a picture of Brett Lawrie from the game because he's perfect.

and this super drunk guy kept yelling over and over, "I'd KILL myself if I was from Texas. I'd KILL myself if I was from Texas. I'd KILL myself if I was from Texas." Security talked to him, he explained this was a free county, and continued to declare his suicidal leanings based on geography. I was so uncomfortable. One, he wasn't funny; did he think that would be a humorous comment? Two, it was kind of the worst thing to ever say to someone, and I really don't think he was kidding, so it put all of us in the area in a weird position. Like, did we have duty to warn?

Sometimes drunk people let the dancing fly and that can be semi-entertaining, but it never ends well. Always in tears or fighting or falling and bleeding.

Alcohol at games is so expensive and I don't know why you are wasting your money on a game you won't even remember.

8. Kids

Leave them at home.

Just kidding, mostly. Yesterday I sat behind a couple and their kid, and the seats were really expensive, like probably 100 dollar seats (I paid 7 dollars for mine), and the kid was on a video game thing THE WHOLE TIME.

Here's my niece Lainee, who I took to a Twins/White Sox game last year, and we had a blast. I am a hypocrite. So I will say it's okay to take SOME kids.

If your kid doesn't want to be at the game, don't take them. Wait until they want to come. You're going to make your kid hate baseball if you force him or her to suffer through 3 hours of torture (to them).

Also, if you bring a kid to the game and I catch a foul ball or a home run, I'm keeping it. I'm not going to give it to a dumb kid. They have their whole lives to catch their own baseballs, and maybe if they got off the phone or the video game and played baseball outside like a human, or were watching the game, they would have caught the ball instead of me.

*disclaimer: I actually do give a lot of baseballs away to kids during the season, but NEVER if someone says, "Give it to the kid!" I'll give it if I feel like it or if the kid looks like this will make him or her a baseball fan for life.

Which reminds me:

9. Those Who Throw it Back

How can you do that? I don't understand. I have been to thousands of baseball games and have NEVER caught a home run. If I ever get the honor and privilege of catching a home run ball, I am keeping that thing for life. If I'm sitting in the bleachers at Wrigley when this happens, I guess I'll have to run for my life because those people will cut me.

Here's a Joe Mauer autographed ball I did not catch, but rather WON, at a Twins game. I did not give it to a kid. Also, I am wearing a Cubs jacket in this picture, but this is acceptable because (A) I'm from Chicago, (B) No one in Minnesota hates the Cubs, and (C) it was so cold, plus (D) I'm wearing a Twins shirt underneath. So this picture doesn't illustrate this point, but I wanted to brag about the ball.

Don't pressure the lucky bloke who actually caught a home run ball into throwing it back. I know it's tradition, but too bad. It's a special moment. So I guess my peeve isn't really with those who throw it back so much as it is with those who pressure others into throwing it back. I think this is mainly a Wrigley thing, but I've seen it elsewhere.

And .... probably the one I hate almost as much as the wave...

10. People Who Boo Their Own Team and Players

What is WRONG with you? Chicago fans are the WORST about this (although Boston is probably actually worse).

My favorite example of this is none other than Sparkles himself, Kris Bryant. Sit back and enjoy a good story.

Everyone wanted him up from day one, but he started in AAA, so Cubs fans became defiant and called for his call-up and made signs and swore at Theo Epstein. Then Mike Olt got injured and they needed a 3rd baseman, and he was called up. I was there for his debut with the Fitzys and we were pumped!

 So then he gets up to bat and everyone is so psyched. Here he is in his MLB debut:

Everyone stood up and cheered. You can see that everyone took a picture. They wanted a home run, because that's what the promise of Kris Bryant was. Home runs galore!

Except, he didn't hit a home run. He struck out. And then he came up to bat again. Less cheers this time, but everyone still seemed pretty excited.

And he struck out again. Then he came up again with men on base. So much adrenaline must have been pumping through him. Everyone was cheering. He could be a hero!

But that didn't happen.

His fourth at-bat that day, the fans booed him. Just brutally screamed "YOU SUCK" and "GO BACK TO THE MINORS" and all kinds of worse things I won't write here. Needless to say, he ended the day hitless. I can't remember the last at bat--I want to say he hit a long fly and when it was caught the crowd booed him.

The next day was more of the same. Booing him every at bat. But then he got his first hit

 and now he's everyone's hero and people would kill their mother to get his autograph.

I say all this and posted all of those basically identical pictures to say this: You are such a terrible person if you are spreading your hate with boos. You might as well just do The Wave, for crying out loud. The rude, hateful tweets are also garbage.

What if someone came to your job with a bunch of their friends and watched you work, and when they saw you make a mistake, they just started booing you? I feel like I would feel like a loser and perform even worse. I know athletes have thick skin, but seriously, you are just a total jerkface if you boo your own guys when they are down.

Here's the thing. I can talk about my mom being a turd to my family, but if one of my friends ever said something about my mom, I'd punch him in the throat. I don't post how much I hate my mom on twitter, or that I think she should be fired from being my mom. I just kind of wait it out, or maybe I won't spend as much time with her when she's unpleasant. Well, that's how you should be about your team. Gripe about the Cubs to your other Cubs fan friends, but if you see a picture of one of them taking a selfie with a fan, don't reply with "Stop taking selfies and start getting hits," as if you need to stop doing one to get the other. This actually happened when the Sox posted a picture of my friend Polly getting a picture with Jose Abreu.

I called him out, and we conversed for a bit, but he insisted on being a jerkface.

It's okay to say you're not going to games until they start winning, but don't pretend that you were with me in a 3-hour rain delay at Wrigley in September of 2012 that ended with the Cubs losing by, like, 35 runs.

Okay, the actual score was Pirates winning 3-0, but look at the time. That is dedication and love.

Which brings me to the saddest pet peeve:

11. Fair-Weather Fans

Much like Blackhawks fans.... Don't pretend that you've stuck by the Cubs through thick and thin because most of you didn't. Most of you don't remember Lendy Castillo or Justin Germano or Joe Mather but I do, because I loved them even when they lost 101 games.

Here's Angela and me with Michael Bowden's (do you even know who Michael IS?) shoelaces at the last game of the 2012 season. We went to about 60 Cubs games that year. They were 61-101 that year, a .377 winning percentage. But we cheered on every single player.

I have sat in the front row at Wrigley because it is so empty. I have paid 10 dollars to do so. They were so bad. In fact, I blogged about that entire losing season. I never booed Carlos Marmol when he blew saves, even though my heart burst every time he went on the mound. I didn't boo anyone that whole season. And they still had moments to cheer about, especially that last game, which you can read about at this place.

My favorite moment in the season, other than all the hob-nobbing with the players, was Bryan LaHair himself, who we called LaHomer. He was super boss most of the first half, and I am going to quote myself for what happened in the bottom of the 9th that last game of 2012:

"Bryan LaHair came up to bat. LaHair, who had such a great start to the season but had been largely forgotten when Rizzo was called up to take his place at first. LaHair, who couldn't seem to hit lefties. LaHair, selected to the All-Star team by the players but who let another player use his glove at first. I am not a baseball mind, but I didn't understand why he sat the bench so much and didn't even get a chance. I was pretty sure he wouldn't be on the Cubs next year--they could trade him and get a lot for him. And I really wanted this for him.

And he singled.

As the run scored, the Cubs ran on the field and mobbed him."

The Cubs will win the World Series this year, and I will be so happy, but I don't know if I will be as happy as I was that night for Bryan LaHair, who, as I predicted, did NOT return to the Cubs, or even MLB, and is right now playing for the Somerset Patriots, an independent baseball team. I don't know if I will ever be as happy for anyone as I was in that moment.

That is why being a fair-weather fan cheats YOU. You missed some of the history and some of the lore, even though you did get all the good stuff. You're like the dad who never changes diapers or gets up in the night with the crying baby, but holds up the kid when he's all dressed up and, as the mom is withering in the corner on 2 hours of sleep, talk about how much you love that kid. I wonder how much you love the kid you didn't love enough to get up with in the night, and I wonder how much you loved the team that you never really knew back when you thought they were unlovable.

It's not as fun to go to Wrigley now, because I spend my time bitterly judging the lunatics around me who jumped on the Cubs bandwagon. But then I remember that their loss was my gain, because before Jake threw no-hitters, he hung out with me in a hotel lobby and woke up my friend, as you can see here. Anthony Rizzo knows who I am and remembers that I was there in the bad times. I got to know awesome guys like Steve Clevenger and Blake Parker and Josh Vitters and Joe Mather and Jeff Beliveau. I can tell you stories about every guy on that team, good stories. And I can know that every win is kind of a thank you from the Cubs (whether they know it or not) for sticking by them.

So what started as annoyance and ended in bitterness/nostalgia is really just me telling you I love the game, and asking you to please not ruin it for me.

My open letter to John Danks

Dear Johnny D.,

I probably shouldn't address you in such a familiar way. We are not friends. I see you pretty regularly at The Cell, and I finally received confirmation from you that you recognize me. When I see you, whether it's throwing long toss pre-game, or pitching on the mound, my cheers for you are always calling you "Johnny D."

I remember when the White Sox traded for you, a young, handsome southern boy with a big smile and a heck of an arm. Everyone was so excited. You were the hope for the future. By 2008, you lived up to every word of the hype. You were outstanding. And then there was the Blackout Game. You destroyed my beloved Twins, who also played pretty well that day, and pitched 1-hit shutout baseball for 8 innings to win the division. You were everyone's hero.

You signed a big contract and then your shoulder blew up. People were mad. I never get why fans get mad at a player when he gets hurt, as if it doesn't kill you to sit the bench. As if it doesn't kill you to take your time getting well. As if it doesn't kill you to know that the choices you make for recovery can make or break your career.

As if it doesn't kill you to see that you can't do what you could do before.

As if you wouldn't do anything to fix it.

As if you don't work your tail off trying to be the pitcher you were and the pitcher you know you can be.

That's what makes the contracts important--you've put all your chips on this one talent, and if you don't make it...there's no way of knowing what comes next.

I guess the truth is, you were never the same. Is that traitorous for me to admit? I can say that because you know, just as I know I can't play the game the way I used to, but nothing is at stake for me, and everything is for you. Your fall from golden boy only made me cheer harder and louder. Everyone knew that I was a Johnny D fan. Some people, I admit, tried to talk me out of it, but they gave up. Most people agreed with me, although not quite so ardently as I. DJ and Farmer on the radio were two guys who always talked you up. I remember one home game when you left the game to a chorus of boos after giving up just two runs in 6 innings, they were talking about how it was a quality start, and how fans didn't get it. They were pulling for you, too. But cheers and encouragement is sometimes hard to hear when the boos are deafening and ignorant and mean.

You had moments where your talent shone as bright as anything. I don't know how you did it. I don't know how you dealt with the boorish fans booing you when you allowed even one run. And when you were good, you were SO good. Everyone cheered.

There was often talk of trading you. I hoped they wouldn't. I believed in you. I believed you would come back, because I'd seen it in you so many times. You didn't get traded, and I was relieved. That meant I still got to wave to you before games and sometimes talk to you. You were always so friendly and talked to me like I was a human, even though I had trouble acting like a human around you.

I became friends with Cisco, the parking lot security guard, because he saw that I was your fan. He was (still is) your fan, too. He told me that you were the most stand-up guy he knew, how when other guys were into shenanigans and doing things they weren't supposed to, you remained close to your morals. He talked about admiring your faith and that you were one of the best people he knew.

I remembered the game you pitched, when your brother Jordan drove in the winning run. What a cool memory to have with your brother!

You signed for me a lot. Any time you had a chance to sign, you always signed more pictures and cards for me than anyone, and I am hoarding all of them like a creepy miser. Every autograph and every picture represents a memory.

I will never forget Minnesota this year, when you tossed me the ball, then came over and signed some autographs for me and took a picture and talked. You only talked to me. You knew I'd come a long way and that I was a real fan. It made me feel special. It's a memory I will always treasure.

Today I received messages from various friends who know how much you mean to me. They all gave me the bad news that you were DFA. I was sad, but I am going to tell you something awful right now--I was also kind of relieved. I've grown weary of the booing. My stomach sinks and I feel so bad for you. And now I think, I KNOW, that you will sign with a new team. You will have a new environment, and you will have new fans and new coaches. You will go out there without the expectation that you will pitch like it is the last game of 2008 and it's win or die. You will simply be John Danks, pitcher, with a clean slate. You will thrive. I truly believe that.

And when you come to town, whether on the North Side of the South Side, I will be there at every game. You'll hear me. I'll be the one yelling "Johnny D!" at the top of my lungs. I will always cheer for you. I will always support you.

I've always had trouble separating the person from the player. I could never run a team. The GM sees business, but I see potential and friends, and I can never think of any of you guys in terms of dollars and wins. Especially you.

Thanks for all the memories and for the kindness and the thrills. You will always have a fan in me.

Fatherless Day

Oh man. You know, I knew this day was coming, almost exactly 6 months after the death of my dad. But I really thought I'd be better by now. Not over it, maybe, because losing a dad isn't something you just forget about, but I thought I'd feel closer to whole. I don't. I feel worse than ever. I feel like every day that gets closer to Father's Day, I think of one more way that I was a pretty bad daughter.

It's ridiculous. I was a great daughter. My dad and I had a lot of fun, and a lot of good talks, and spent a lot of time together. Truth be told, he would be the first to say that I was a far better daughter than he was a dad. But I still think of all the things we didn't do together, and lately I begin to cry at the slightest reminder that I will never talk to my dad again. It's hard to NOT think of all the things you didn't do, didn't say, all the ways you let him down. But I always did Father's Day right by him, that I know.

Every Father's Day, I went to church, then stopped and picked up food, then went to his house to watch the Sox game. That was our pattern every year since years began. He was a simple guy. I usually bought him a couple Sox t-shirts or something. But what he really wanted was to watch the Sox with me, just to spend time with me doing something he loved. That was the real present.

This year I decided I would leave town for Father's Day. I thought being away physically might also distance the pain emotionally. But a couple weeks ago, when I began to cry more regularly at the thought of this day coming, I realized that it didn't matter where I was. I'm going to cry on June 15th. I may even cry the whole day, even among strangers, even making people super uncomfy. Geography isn't going to stop me from remembering that I should be sitting in my dad's dusty living room eating pizza and listening to him tell me why the White Sox were the greatest team in the entire universe and Paul Konerko should be president of the world and Gordon Beckham should've won the Gold Glove the last three years and Alexei Ramirez should stay with the team at ANY COST and Robin Ventura is a genius and just you wait until Adam Dunn gets on a roll because he will blast every home run imaginable and have you seen Jose Abreu and what a steal he was and that brilliant Rick Hahn, etc., etc., etc. My dad loved the Sox and supported their every move. I still can't wrap my mind around the idea that he is gone and those conversations are over.

So here's how I will spend Father's Day. In Chicago. At a White Sox game. Family Sunday, which I realize sounds like I am torturing myself, but listen---I look forward to seeing dads with their daughters. It might make me sad, it might make me miss him more, but above all of that, I will remember my own father's delight when he realized that I loved baseball and he would have a child to watch with, to talk with. I will remember how he drove all the way through Chicago during rush hour so he could take me to Southlake Mall in Hobart, Indiana, so I could meet my favorite baseball player, Robin Ventura, how he laughed when I cried and said I reminded him of a girl he knew who met the Beatles. I will remember all the times he took me to SoxFest, such a waste of a ticket because he didn't care about autographs or anything--he just loved watching my reaction meeting players. I will remember all the Twins-Sox games we went to, and how he would roll his eyes and say, "Are you really going to wear that?" at my Twins gear. I will remember my dear old dad and our good baseball times as I watch loads of dear old dads with their kids, and I hope they all savor every second, because who knew you only get 65 years sometimes? I will cry, but I will be happy because Andre Rienzo is pitching, and my dad absolutely raved about him, and he is one of my favorite people on this planet. Maybe I'll splurge and get really good seats and just enjoy the game. Maybe I will buy an extra ticket for my dad, even though he probably won't make it. Maybe I am getting all my tears out now and there will be nothing left Sunday.

But the bottom line is, I will spend this Fatherless Day with the White Sox, who, in spite of my support for the Cubs and Twins, I really do love. I will always love them because they brought my dad and me together 22 years ago, and they kept our relationship solid up until the day he died. So see ya Sunday, Sox!

Baseball Sans Dad

It’s harder than I thought to watch baseball without my father. I’m sadder than I thought I would be for longer than I thought I would be. It’s surprising how choked up I feel right now as I write, yet also how compelled I feel to write. I had meant to keep my blog up-to-date this season, but I begin to write, and my fingers cramp, and my heart aches, and I wonder if my dad is watching baseball now, somehow, or if he’s watching me and thinking that he is also surprised about how much I miss him.

I have wanted to call him so many times already, have even stupidly reached for my phone and then remembered that it doesn’t work like that anymore. I see fathers with their sons, and it just hurts so much that we will never watch a game together again. My eyes will randomly fill as I watch the game, out of nowhere, because of nothing, except a deep, searing emptiness.

So this baseballgirl is going to try to get back to the writing, but it may take a while. In the meantime, just cherish the ones you have, even those diehard White Sox fans like my dad who wanted to see another Crosstown Series and who would have secretly rooted for the Cubs, just for me.

My Secret Shame

I have a secret shame, and I'm finally ready to share it with the world:

I collect baseball cards.

Yes, on the outside I am a grown, professional woman with a master's degree and the ability to go to rated-R movies. But on the inside, I am a pimply 11-year-old boy who still thinks kissing is gross. When I'm having a rough day, I go to Target and pick up a pack and rip it open. And I love that smell, the smell of a fresh pack of cards, and, really, the smell of hope. The hope that inside, I'll find a player I really like, and not another Homer Bailey, because he is never nice to me.

This secret shame started the summer of 1992, but I never bought packs. I went down the street to a little Griffith, Indiana, shop named with initials--L&M or something like that. It was a baseball card shop, and inside the owners had beautiful Robin Ventura and Mark Grace and Ryne Sandberg and Jack McDowell cards. I only wanted Cubs and Sox, or former Cubs and Sox, and those four players especially. I was a unique specimen, a girl who collected cards and liked BOTH Chicago teams, so the owner used to set aside cards he knew I'd like and cut me a really good deal. We never had the money to go to the park for baseball games, and we didn't have a TV that got reception, so these cards were my window into the faces of these men that I revered, and those faces were in my mind as I pored over the daily box scores. Because above all, above the collecting and the cards themselves, I loved baseball more than almost anything.

I never really thought about getting the cards signed because it seemed impossible. People with autographed baseball cards were so glamorous. I got one card signed--Robin Ventura's #1 Draft Pick Topps card. I think it was a 1988. I need to check on that. I went to Southlake Mall in Merrillville, Indiana, where he was signing, and when I saw him in person, I started crying, like this was the Beatles or something. He signed the card and smiled and I was happier than I ever thought I'd be again. In fact, maybe that moment was the happiest I ever was--it's impossible to quantify that kind of thing, though.

I thought I had a lot of cards. I had a jumbo binder full, all of Cubs and Sox. And then I went away to college, and I brought it with me, proudly displaying a bumper sticker for The Score's old radio station across its cover. But I wasn't proud of the cards--I hid them. I put the binder in my college storage area until I met Mark Wilkins. Mark and I became instant friends when he found out I loved baseball. We had other things in common, too, such as our intense addiction to our college family. We didn't always like the school, but we loved the friends there, and we both thought of our school as our family. But back to baseball, Mark knew Robin Ventura was my favorite (everyone at college knew he was my favorite), and even though Mark cheered for the Red Sox, we talked about Ventura versus Boggs and would a Chicago or Boston team ever win a World Series again? And then he told me he collected baseball cards, and I breathed a sigh of relief, because I finally had someone I could share my secret shame with. His collection was back in Massachusetts, and it was far more full than mine, but I could tell from his face that he understood how cool baseball cards were. And he understood why, when I was feeling homesick, I would sneak up to the storage area and page through my binder and look at the faces of my hometown teams.

And then Mark's brother died, and Mark had to leave school, and I was so profoundly sad for him, my good, dear friend who was one of the most generous people I'd ever known, that he had to experience this intense pain, and then leave the family he had at school. I was no good with expressing emotion, but I wanted him to know I cared, so I wrote him a letter and tucked inside my Robin Ventura autographed card, because I felt like that was the only way to show him that I wanted him to feel better and that I would miss him, and I knew I was telling him in a language he understood.

Mark gave me back the card and another Ventura card, mounted in a beautiful casing, saying he couldn't possibly accept the card but appreciated the gesture. And he eventually came back to Minnesota and we are still friends to this day, and since then he has given me boxes and boxes of baseball cards, and I have a signed Saltalamacchia card that I keep meaning to send him. We've seen teams from both our cities win World Series titles, but not the team that matters. Not the Cubs. I imagine when that happens, he'll be one of the first people I want to celebrate with, because he understands waiting and disappointment and what it means to have just one dream come true.

I didn't really collect any new cards because I had no time for it, and I lost a little interest. But a couple years ago, I started collecting again, and I started collecting players from all the teams, and now I have begun collecting signatures on baseball cards. That means I hang out with some of the creepiest, weirdest, most unwashed people you will ever see in your life. Now, I will only collect autographs at the park. I will not go to hotels, or chase people down in restaurants and ask for their autographs. That's their private time. Some guys only sign at hotels, so I guess I will never get those guys. It's different asking them at the park, I guess because they're at work and it's their jobs. But some of these guys will chase down players in their cars, and they'll pay kids to ask for autographs, and they will beg you for an autograph you got that they really want.

Sometimes I look at them, and I know this is their whole life, and it makes me sad, because I picture their families at home and I know there is no way they can actually support a family on what they make selling baseball cards. Or I picture the families they will never have because I am the first female they have ever spoken to, and I don't really count. And sometimes I look at them and I want to punch them in the throat because they're obnoxious. So why do I do it? I don't really know. I guess it's the challenge. I love that sometimes I'm the only one that the guys sign for, and I know it's because I'm usually the only girl there and I'm hilarious, and they know I couldn't possibly be a dealer. And it's a means to an end. I get to meet these guys. I have met some of the greatest players to ever play this beautiful game. I know the ones who are always nice (Joe Mauer) and the ones who will never stop, even to spit on your face if your mustache is on fire (Yadier Molina). Really, most of the guys are so nice, and if it weren't for their 300 dollar jeans and 1500 dollar shoes, you'd never know they were fancy or famous.

And the thing is, I have met some of the most wonderful people in the world, and I'm not talking about the baseball players. In the middle of the unwashed masses of collectors, a few people have come forward with being awesome.

One guy is a Chicago police officer. He used to be at every game at Wrigley, but last year a guy robbed me, and he chased after him, and he was attacked by the perp, and now it's a big legal battle. We've hung out a few times outside of baseball, and he has a great heart and I'd trust him with my life, even though I barely know him. He never comes anymore, and that's sad. That thief didn't just take my stuff; he robbed me of my friend, too.

Another guy is a Chicago Public School teacher. He's taught me a lot about collecting, and I can talk to him about baseball and he takes me seriously. He's a Brewers fan, but really he just loves the game. He gets really intense when we're having a good day and he gets really curmudgeony when no one signs. Sometimes he brings his two nephews, and he sits back while they get autographs, and he looks alternately proud of them and irritated with them if they aren't aggressive enough. I love to watch it. He just got married, so I know he won't be around as much, especially once he starts having kids. And I know it will kill him when I post the autographs I got at the park while he stayed home with his family. But the difference between most of the other collectors and him is that he has imagined a life for himself outside of chasing down multimillionaires and asking for the stroke of their pen on a piece of cardboard. He likes that, but he doesn't live for it.

And then there's the dad, the rough, ex-gang member who has stories of bullets whizzing by his ear, a former alcohol-addicted guy who has cleaned up his life, and whose kids, especially his youngest son, worship him. He swears constantly, and those words are probably among the nicest things he says. He jokes around and hurts my feelings and then laughs like a pirate. If we were on a reality-television show, they'd have to bleep at least 70 percent of what he says. "This sucks," he says, at least once a game, especially after getting turned down for an autograph. But he's the only one who could get Russell Martin to stop and sign, so I think he's pretty cool. And he loves his kids. He shows it in a bizarre way, threatening to break their arms or calling them gay, but he doesn't mean any of those things. He loves his family fiercely, and he would take a bullet for any of them. And they would follow him anywhere. It amazes me that he has that kind of influence. It is amazing and humbling to know someone out there hangs on your every word and every action. And he was another guy who chased after the robber, his youngest son tagging behind, too, because he does anything his dad does. He went after a criminal for me, someone he barely knew, someone who just happens to have that same baseball-card sickness.

There are a couple other semi-normal ones of us out there, and we all have our stories and our reasons, but none of us really talk about this part of our lives with our other friends. They wouldn't understand. They would think it's cool that we met Chipper Jones and Bryce Harper, but they wouldn't want to stand outside for 12 hours with us. That's something only we understand, and maybe that's why we're friends with each other. We're in a hospital ward suffering from the same disease, or we're at a 12-step meeting admitting we have a problem but that we're not quite ready to get that monkey off our backs.

And I know the baseball players think we're losers, and I can live with that. I won't even think of that after the game when I'm counting my cards and looking at my autographs again and again and texting my friends about our loot, where my one binder has evolved into two bookshelves worth of binders filled with cards. It's my secret shame, but it's public now, and I feel like there are more people like me out there somewhere who are ashamed, too.

Find me. Let's do this together.

Soxfest 2013 Part Two

In the middle of the night between Saturday and Sunday, I felt worse than death, so I called my sister and told her we were not going to SoxFest Sunday. But then I decided, no, I was going. I make decisions weirdly. I couldn't get ahold of Veronica, so I had to go alone.

Since I got there late, I was unable to secure a spot to see Tony LaRussa, so I settled for Hector Santiago, a very likable gentleman. It was not as fun alone. Nick was off getting everyone's auto. We made a deal that I would try to get Joe Crede for him and he would get LaRussa for me. But you're only supposed to get one thing signed, so it seemed like a long shot.

Anyway, here's nice-guy Hector. He is one of the most fan-friendly players I have ever met, and I think he's going to be great for the Sox.

I then went to get a photo with Addison Reed. I mean, who wouldn't want that? He's a doll.

We got a photo with my camera, but the Sox camera broke (no jokes about me being ugly, please. I'm very sensitive). So it ended up being a photo shoot with my camera while we waited.

I was uncomfy with so many pictures of me next to him. I mean, seriously. He's just so cute. So I started making small talk. Here, you can see that he's like, "Okay, get her outta here!"

But I am an acquired taste, and soon I had him laughing uproariously. He probably wished for me to never leave, but we needed to be fair to other people.

One of the things I asked Addy about was how it felt always losing players. Did he miss them? Did it make him sad. He said, no, it was all part of the game, and they know that going in. But I can't help but wonder if that was just his little "Addison Reed, I'm a kid trying to prove myself so I gotta act tough" thing. I mean, you're a human! Don't you miss people? He's so cute. though.

I then went to pay tribute to John Danks again. I really love this guy.

I got a Joe Crede wristband next, and the problem with that is, once you get a wristband, you can't go in any more lines. One wristband only. So I went downstairs, and at the Comcast booth, you could meet those guys without a wristband. So I decided to get in line for Tom Paciorek. He was the TV guy with Hawk Harrelson when I first became a fan, so it was really cool to meet him. I was weirdly nervous.

In line, I was talking to my dad, when something green came up behind me and took my phone. It was Southpaw.

Here I am with Tom Paciorek. I talked to him a little and he hugged me, then told everyone my hair smelled amazing.

More time to kill, but then I saw that there was a seminar with some of my favorite people, including Robin Ventura (all-time favorite), Darrin Jackson, and Bobby Thigpen, who I loved to watch pitch back with my 90s Sox. I was alone, but the room was packed, and I just decided I would go up and ask a question.

First, I said that Robin should've been manager of the year, because HE SHOULD HAVE! And then I asked when they would bring back Craig Grebeck, causing this great laugh from the people up on stage.

Then I just asked Robin about coaching with guys he had played with. It was nice. Here he is running away from me.

Then I went to the Alexei Ramirez photo session, but Frank Thomas was leaving! I high-fived him and wished there was a way to preserve my hand.

And then I got an autograph from him. He's so nice.

Here I am with Alexei.

And then I finally met Joe Crede! People said he was mean, but he was so nice to me! I love third baseman, and I had admired him for a long time. He signed my card and Nick's and then took a photo.

I did rush down to see Gordon Beckham. This is the most I saw of him all weekend. Not enough!

Oh--and Nick did get me that LaRussa autograph! He didn't want to trade but a deal's a deal.

And that is it for my SoxFest adventure! 

Sox Fest 2013, Part One

Since most of my readers are Cubs fans, they always become indignant when I bring up the fact that I am also a Cubs fan. I actually began my baseball odyssey as a Sox fan, so if it weren't for the Sox I might enjoy shopping or badminton or something like that. I would not say that the Sox are my favorite team--probably like my third favorite team. But I enjoy them. 

Now, I was not even planning to go to SoxFest. I don't have money. But I received an unexpected gift, and Friday night, I decided to go. So here is my time at Sox Fest.

First, here's Nick. Nick saved me and my sister Veronica a spot in line. He wanted Konerko first thing Saturday morning, but I was all about Jake Peavy. I'd never met him, plus I'd tweeted to him earlier in the week about our mutual love of Amos Lee. Anyway, Nick ditched the Konerko situation and joined us for Peavy. He would definitely want me to post this picture of him with my sister in the Peavy line.

Anyway, it was almost time for me to talk to Jake Peavy, and, boy of boy, was I excited. I started taking thousands of photos of him. I even had some of him winking. He winks at people a lot.

After what seemed like a 14-inning game, it was finally my turn to talk to Jake. I am in awe at this moment. 

I didn't know what to say (Nick would probably say, to say nothing, you weirdo"), so I just started blubbering about Amos Lee, and we had a nice chat, but I think people wanted to murder me, so I just got a picture and left, walking on air.

Then I went over to the photo area, and got a picture with Harold Baines.

Then I pranced over tmeet up with Dayan Viciedo.

And then over to Alexei Ramirez. I wanted to tell him in Spanish that I liked his watch. I butchered it. He corrected me.

Now, for some reason, the other people I really love are the bullpen and Tyler Flowers. I was super excited about him being our catcher. I was so excited to talk to him and Nate Jones. But I was too shy to ask for a photo,

Who knows what inane topic I chose to talk about here? That's why I should really write these soon afterward. I think I was telling him that Cisco, the parking lot security guy and my friend, said hello.

I think at this point I was thinking seriously of asking for a photo.

This is me chickening out and just getting the handshake.

Here's Nate Jones and my sister.

Another ridiculous love of  mine is John Danks. Now, say what you will, but I really have high hopes for him once he's totally healthy. Veronica didn't want a photo, so I went down there, and who is available for photos but Veronica's new favorite player (now that AJ is gone), Chris Sale. So I got a photo.

And here I am with John Danks. He is such a southerner.

I then went and talked to another guy I love, Gavin Floyd.

When we went to Chris Sale's line, he was being such a nice guy. A boy in front of me who had what I am guessing is autism asked Chris what he had for lunch. That is this kid's thing--asking people what they had for lunch. Chris talked to him for a very long time and then came out from behind the table and took a picture with him. Above and beyond, as usual. I told Chris he was a really good guy, and he looked embarassed and mumbled, "I try to be," and smiled.

So Veronica did get her photo with Chris.

A Gavin Floyd photo opportunity? Okay.

This next part was one of my favorite things ever! As I mentioned earlier in this post, I was a Sox fan first. I became a baseball junkie at age 14 after watching a Sox game in 1992. I fell in love with the 1992 White Sox. At the helm of their pitching staff was  a quirky ginger named Jack McDowell. Never in a million years did I think I would actually meet him!

But meet him, I did.

He was perfectly lovely! Look at him. He looks like he actually cares about what I am saying. I don't know what I said, except that I know I asked him about Craig Grebeck, another White Sox alum, and he told me his kids and played ball with Grebeck's kids out in California. Craig Grebeck, if you are reading this, contact the White Sox. I ask Rick Hahn about you every chance I get.

Meeting Jack was an enormous honor and treat, as you can tell from my face.

To round out the day, I went and talked to my two favorite and definitely the best ever radio announcers. Here I am with Ed Farmer.

And here I am with Darrin Jackson. I think I have scared Darrin off at this point. I just adore him so much.