Arrow down. A-A-A-A-A. Arrow down. Strike.

Arrow up. B tap. Arrow right. Ball, inside.

Arrow down. A-A-A. Arrow up. Strike.

Arrow down. A______hold. Arrow down tap. Swing and a miss. Strike three. Nice.

As a kid, I had never heard of Strat-O-Matic or fantasy baseball. I didn’t have a computer until 1999. I had friends who liked baseball, but before high school, I didn’t have anyone with whom to share my fanaticism. My dad didn’t really understand the game then. So, for a good chunk of my childhood, my fandom was a solitary exercise. I watched games on TV, I collected and studies baseball cards, and I played video games. Specifically, Nintendo games.

RBI Baseball was cool. RBI Baseball 2, for some reason, less cool. But my devotion was to Bases Loaded 3.

Bases Loaded 3, for a kid whose Nintendo had been lapped by superior systems several times over, was a godsend, a fluid game with Major League stadiums and no designated hitter.

There were no Major League teams in the 1991 game, just big league cities, with Washington, D.C., included. Still, I gravitated towards Boston, who seemed to have the best hitters in the game. One fictional player, “COSBY,” was good for 55 home runs and looked like an 8-bit Jose Canseco. Their best pitcher was a guy named “LEFTLY,” who was, obviously, right-handed, and had a Tom Seaver-esque drop-and-drive delivery to the plate.

Like its more popular cousin, RBI Baseball, Bases Loaded 3’s outfielders were incredibly difficult to control, with the added difficulty of not really knowing where they were positioned before it was time to move them towards fly balls. Sometimes, luck would come into play, and I could pull off a sliding catch. More often, doubles turned into triples as the left fielder was stuck running in place into the corner wall.

Still, the game play was enjoyable, if far from perfect. The TV-style camera angle made pitching fun, and tossing the ball around the infield became something of a skill. But what put Bases Loaded 3 over the top was its editable team.

Simply labelled “E” in the team selection screen, users were able to customize names by painstakingly toggling letters, batting averages and ERAs, creating a fantasy team of the NES variety. I didn’t have a Super Nintendo to play the Ken Griffey Jr. game, so if I was going to play as the Red Sox, post-1988, this is how I had to do it.

G R C P R A

AVG: .372

HR: 30

RUN: 60

B: R

And I did this constantly. 

I’d call the process of editing each name, batting average, speed, handness and ERA a labor of love, but I don’t feel that anything quite this insignificant can be deemed “labor” without insult. But it was obviously important to me — I’d spend 15 to 20 minutes before each session getting the lineup, bench, rotation and bullpen set just so, further perfecting the process and lineup over time. From there, I’d play as long as I could — the E-team retained its settings on a restart, but once the power button or the lines of death hit, it was over.

My doctoring of the team was fueled by an obsession that could only be mustered by a 14-year-old boy with few friends and no girlfriend.  After enough time, I was able to match players to their body type or batting stance. Mo Vaughn’s hunched-over frame, Tim Naehring’s even stance and, later, Pedro Martinez’s quick, elastic wind-up were all accounted for.

To quicken the process, I inserted a sheet into the back of the game’s case that tracked which spot belonged to which player, adding my own superfluous information, like positions and uniform numbers. I also updated this sheet constantly, with the last version in the case clearly serving as a hybrid of the 1997 and ’98 Red Sox.

 

Though there were no true position requirements, I held steadfast to what players were able to play and made double-switches when appropriate (though, by the end, Pedro’s batting line was obscenely good compared to reality). Players like Mike Benjamin and John Valentin, with their ability to play multiple positions, came in handy in these cases, as did someone like Steve Avery, who I’d flop between starting and relieving.

Truly, it was about enjoying the game. When NESN was still a premium channel, I only had access to half of all Red Sox games. From there, I’d have to decide between watching the Yankees (on WPIX), the Braves (TBS), listening along on the radio, or creating my own fantasy world on Nintendo. Sometimes my games were a quick relief at 2:30 from whatever school had served up, and sometimes it was the featured attraction.

I was never a great baseball player, and I couldn’t go to many games. But I could shepherd my own version of the Red Sox, pinch hitting Damon Buford for Tim Wakefield, turning the double play or, once in a great while, hitting one that flew out of the park so quickly it’d break the screen.

Inevitably, something was going to break the screen. I could only hope that the moment came with glory.

 

Nick Tavares lives by the ocean in Massachusetts, where he writes about music and sports by night and serves as an internet reporter for The New Bedford Standard-Times by day. Check out his baseball blog at Shutouts.wordpress.com, or the rest of his work at www.NickTavares.com. If you want to talk about Pearl Jam or Pedro Martinez, follow him on Twitter @NickTavares. 

 

Chris St. John is a chemical engineer that just can’t help getting drawn into baseball stats. His work has appeared on ESPN, Baseball Prospectus and Beyond the Box Score. His personal blog is Steal of Home, where his claim to fame is ratting out the White Sox in the Blue Jays sign-stealing scandal. You can follow him on twitter @stealofhome.

I don’t like baseball. Don’t get me wrong — I enjoy baseball. I choose to watch games of my own free will and am entertained. But I don’t like baseball. There is nothing special to me about the game above anything else in this world. The beauty of the game does not transcend description to me. Red Smith quipped, “Ninety feet between bases is the nearest thing to perfection that man has yet to achieve.” To me, ninety feet is just a dimension. I don’t “stare out the window and wait for spring” like Rogers Hornsby when there’s no baseball.  Ernie Harwell wrote, “Baseball is a ballet without music. Drama without words.” I see it as just a game. I enjoy baseball, but I don’t like baseball.

I grew up in a family that didn’t have any interest in sports, yet after a neighbor provided my brothers and me with a massive amount of trading cards, baseball became my obsession. I treated these cards as if they were precious metals. I would spend hours reading and sorting them while Bob Uecker — the voice of the Brewers– indoctrinated me with the religion of baseball. Eventually I began playing in youth leagues, where I still have a vivid recollection of many of the plays I made. When I look back on my childhood, baseball is the first place my mind goes. Even hearing Uecker’s voice brings me back to those countless days spent on my bedroom floor while the Brewers game poured into my ears like a perfect rendition of Beethoven’s 9^th symphony. I like the memories I have of baseball, but I don’t like baseball.

I was drawn to sports at a young age. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the athleticism required. Maybe it’s the competition. Maybe it’s just that it provides me with an escape from my daily life. But I can’t shake the feeling that if I were born in Canada, I would follow hockey. Anguilla? Yacht racing. Afghanistan? Buzkashi. Almost any other country in the world? Soccer. I like sports, but I don’t like baseball.

I’m an extremely analytical person. If a list or spreadsheet can be made, it will be. I’ve created ranking systems for hockey radio stations, my music collection and every fantasy sport I’ve ever played, including baseball, hockey, basketball and football. I created a system that attempts to calculate daily results of individual baseball players. I like it when things go the way they should. A season of baseball is worth much more to me than a season in any other sport. There aren’t 16 or 82 games in a season — there are 162. Terrible teams may get lucky sometimes, but the teams that stand out in the end are good. They have to be. A terrible player may reach base nine times in 10 plate appearances, but he won’t finish a full season with a .900 on-base percentage. In baseball, most things just…smooth out. It is the most statistically modeled sport I know and I like that. I like the analytical nature of baseball, but I don’t like baseball.

I spend a lot of time with baseball. I blog, I analyze, I tweet, all about baseball. My mind is always investigating new intricacies of the game. I study statistics and seek the subtleties. If news happens, I’m usually one of the first to know, simply because I’m always following it. I’m obsessed with baseball, but I don’t like baseball.

But then there are four simultaneous games, the results of which will decide who goes to the playoffs. Two of the teams are nearing historic collapses. One team is a strike away from elimination until a home run sends the game into extra innings. Another team is struggling to force a playoff until they give up an RBI single in the 9^th and complete their collapse. Still yet another team is on the verge of making the playoffs outright until, in the span of a few minutes, they allow their opponent to score twice in the bottom of the 9^th while their rivals win their game with a walk off home run in the bottom of the 12^th. My heart is pounding and my mind is racing. And it’s in those moments of emotion and suspense, of the impossible calculation becoming the actual result, where all that I know to be true about baseball is cast aside for a brief second…those are the moments when I love baseball.

When I started Baseball-Prose.com, it was out of necessity:  it seems difficult to silence the creative writing side of my brain, even when it comes to baseball.

There are two very distinct sides to my writing in general: the analytical and the personal side.

Sure, I love laboring over statistics. Sometimes I stay up late researching trade possibilities, and during the season I love to think that I could manage my team better than their skipper.

I’m thankful for the opportunities I have to contribute for other sites that allow me to exercise my more traditional writing, especially when it comes to baseball.

But no matter how much I contribute elsewhere, my heart and soul are really wrapped up in this site, and the narratives that surround baseball.

As this site has grown in popularity (and I thank all of you tremendously for your support) it has opened up a dialogue between myself and other writers, which was unexpected. The complaint I hear most often from other writers is that sometimes their creativity is stifled–whether it be from their professional requirements or just life getting in the way.

In general, there have not been a lot of writers that can successfully balance the traditional coverage and the narrative. Recently, I had a couple writers reach out looking for a venue to share some of their stories, and I was honored. And in typical fashion, it inspired something bigger.

What started as a simple email to writers I admired, turned into dozens of writers that committing to telling their stories on Baseball Prose.

And not just any writers. Some really talented people whose stories you will definitely want to read. Some of these writers come from an impressive pedigree–like Baseball Prospectus and SB Nation. Others have been successful in running their own sites like Surviving Grady and Fangs Bites. Some will be humorous, some will be serious, but all of them will be worth reading.

The best part of this project is that there are no restrictions. There is no pressure from an editor; there isn’t a desire to compile a perfect analysis. We haven’t had conversations about word counts or subject matter. All we did discuss was writers telling stories of their life in relation to baseball, and from the submissions I have read thus far, I can guarantee you will love the outcome.

Contributions will start running this week, with the intent to stretch this project out through the off-season. While there will still be regular contributions from me personally, there will be fresh perspectives as well. This week I expect to run a piece by a football blogger writing about baseball; a statistics guy who doesn’t even like baseball; and a writer recounting his childhood obsession with baseball Nintendo games.

I really feel like one of the luckiest people around to have these writers contributing to Baseball Prose. I hope you will check in often and show your support to some of the best writers the internet has to offer, and I hope you will show them the same love and support you have all shown me since this site started.

And as a final thought: Now that the project is unveiled, if you’re a writer that has something you’re interested in contributing, let me know and we can discuss the possibility. 

I am no stranger to off-season depression.

Aside from several months of contentment following the 2004 World Series victory of the Boston Red Sox, the off-season is an opportunity to sit around feeling miserable about myself, wishing there were some sport that could fill the void to the degree baseball does. And while I’m warming to the idea of a winter of watching hockey, it just is not the same.

The internet loses its magic this time of year.

The daily-coverage of baseball is minimal and uninspired. Sure, there might be an interesting study at Baseball Prospectus, the guys over at Over The Monster will make me laugh, but for the most part it is the same thing day after day—discussion of restructuring lineups based solely on speculation, the occasional free agent signing, and Justin Verlander running away with all of the accolades.

Sure, the stove will heat up eventually, but right now it’s lifeless with minimal coals burning. The Red Sox don’t have a manager. They don’t have enough starters. They may or may not have a closer. There are some real questions about whether David Ortiz will re-sign. But at this very moment, all of these prospects of what could be aren’t intriguing to me at all—I like to deal in facts, not the possibilities of what will happen to my beloved.

And perhaps the rumors of Bobby Valentine as manager are depressing me. But it really raises the question: Am I depressed about Bobby Valentine or am I depressed that there are no other candidates in the mix for Red Sox manager that are better than Bobby Valentine?  

And every time I sit down to write this off-season, it comes out like a string of expletives that I cannot control. The White Sox are still saddled with Adam Dunn, Jonathan Papelbon now plays for a team whose fans throw batteries, and my local teams are now the Washington Nationals and the Baltimore Orioles.

There’s nothing bleaker than thinking about a baseball experience where everyone wears business suits with attendance spikes every five days to see Stephen Strasburg pitch. I am now five train stops away from 6 more years of Jayson Werth and his $126MM contract. I will be watching baseball in a ballpark where the away team—regardless of who they are—will draw a bigger crowd than the home team, as one would expect in a city of transplants.

Perhaps the ticket prices, the President’s Race, and those pretzels so artfully shaped like the Washington Curly ‘W’ will make me care about this baseball team—but it’s certainly going to take some heroics well beyond an overpriced outfield Messiah and Doug Slaten—even though he gets a bit of a free pass for his Jimi Hendrix entrance music.

But really, the prospect of unfettered access to a team seems cruel for a baseball fan that was happy spending weekends at US Cellular Field. Even on days when Adam Dunn and Alex Rios did their best Mendoza impressions, I was content to be in a vibrant ballpark of people who loved baseball (except for that one game where these drunk guys kept getting handsy with me and I had to speak with security).

This off-season just seems more depressing because of the other changes that have come along with it.

Am I upset about no longer seeing the White Sox on a weekly basis, or am I upset that I have moved half-way across the country to a land of people who dress as though they could go yachting at any moment?

Do I miss Paul Konerko, or am I missing taquerias on every corner?

I will feel better when the Red Sox have a complete rotation. I will feel better when I know the fate of David Ortiz. I will come to terms with Bobby Valentine as manager if it happens, and I will try and find contentment if the Red Sox overpay for Madson or Capps to step into the closer role.

And in February when pitchers and catchers report, I will do my best to get over all of this depression. Hopefully by that point I will stop comparing my new home with my old one. And perhaps as the winter weather turns to spring I’ll welcome the idea of wearing topsiders and sitting in a nearly empty ballpark in a concrete jungle near a highway overpass cheering for Ryan Zimmerman.

But for now, I get to be grouchy and unsettled and cantankerous…and for the next few months, I can blame it on the absence of baseball regardless of the real reason, and most of you will understand what it feels like.

It is fair to say I enjoy competition.

I knew I liked competing from a young age, but in many ways I internalized competition. As a child athlete, of course I wanted to win games, but overall I think I was more interested in morphing myself into the best athlete I could.

That meant hours in the weight room in high school, even though the guys in there spread rumors that I was a lesbian and said horrible things to my face involving four letter words, I kept going because I had weight-lifting goals that I knew would translate to better performance on the field. Apparently, varsity baseball players find it intimidating when a girl can bench press more than they can.

It also meant Saturdays in a freezing gymnasium in Wisconsin working on catching skills. Setting up a couple feet from the wall on the hard gym floor, while softball and baseball pitchers twice my age hurled fastballs and change ups in my direction. I hated the noise my shin guards made when sliding across the wood floor, just as much as the time I had to spend after practice scrubbing the area behind the plastic home plate to remove all of the scuff marks I had created diving for pitches.If I couldn’t stop the ball with my glove, it would bounce off the wall and come back and hit me. After several fastballs to the back of the head, I became very good at catching things.

And though I am intelligent, all of my academic competitions of my childhood came with keeping my grades above average and staying engaged in the classroom, instead of reading Johnny Bench biographies and issues of Sports Illustrated. My fear for crowds made me an early departure from the spelling bee. I knew how to spell the words, but I was more interested in sitting down in the auditorium than standing on stage.

I never really cared for trophies, nor did I rush home to put every A I got on the refrigerator. I suppose that humble attitude followed me to adulthood, where I am finding there are really two ways to categorize people and their love of competition: the ones who internalize their successes, and those who make everyone around them miserable with their boastful attitude for every achievement.

As an awkward and shy child, who bloomed into an even more awkward and shy adult, I’m a master of internalizing competition.

I put myself through graduate school as some sort of self-competition. The challenge? Finish two degrees in fields that I found interesting, but were extremely challenging beyond my entering skill-set. As someone who was never quite sure that going to college in general was a good idea, it was a bit of a stretch, not to mention I decided to study Finance–which began as another competition: could a severe dyslexic become the master of all things numerical? I’m not sure what happened along the way, but fortunately for my wallet and self-esteem, I found that I do love numbers and spreadsheets. And while I can analyze data with the best of them, if you give me your telephone number orally, I will struggle to write down the numbers in the correct order.

I did finish those degrees–and since I am seemingly finished collecting college degrees like trading cards, I found a job post-graduation. But the job never became an opportunity to beg for congratulations and atta boys. Sure, I mentioned it on Facebook and Twitter. I told some close friends I would be leaving Chicago–but beyond that, I don’t think anyone really knows what I do for a living… not because they are not interested, but because I become a bumbling mess when someone asks me to describe what I do for a living. Not because my work isn’t challenging and interesting, but I got the job and the education for myself–not to impress someone else.

I use my business card holders for baseball cards. I wish I were joking, but when someone asked me for a business card the other day at a coffeeshop, upon seeing my work ID, I reached in my bag, fumbling for the new business card holder that I received as a gift recently, I pulled it out to find it full of 2011 Topps Heritage Cards. I suppose in some situations it’s best to be confident in ones’ abilities and titles–because I don’t think he would believe that I was actually Jon Lester, from Tacoma, Washington with a 3.53 career ERA. Resourcefully I wrote my work email address on his coffee-sleeve. A memorable and awkward experience, which seems to categorize most of my interactions, really.

And for those who know me well, they know that being overweight has always been a struggle. And though I have always been active and focused on being healthy, it wasn’t until last October that I had the support I needed medically  to focus on that. And that meant running daily, at least five miles, even on days when I felt my legs would fall off and I felt like puking. And it meant no longer drinking beer, partaking in Chicago’s deep dish traditions, and no more late night runs to Margie’s for ice cream. And fifty pounds lighter, I feel good about all of the hard work I put in to improve my health. And while I’m slowly working back into a work-out routine after an unexpected back surgery, only a few close friends realize I have been so fixated on improving my well-being…. because sometimes the only person we are competing against are ourselves, Orville Redenbacher, and his friends Ben and Jerry.

For me, in most situations, it’s enough to be proud of myself.

Sometimes there is a propensity, on my lowest and most insecure days, to reach out and seek validation that my decisions are on the right track, but I am struggling in a world where I am surrounded by people who must continually assert how fabulous and wonderful they are.

Have you ever met someone who went to Harvard? While I have a small sample size and as an apsiring statistician I should be warned of making conclusions for such, but it seems that within the first five minutes of conversation, somehow, it’s going to come out that they went to Harvard. Perhaps I mention I like the Red Sox, and they mention that they used to go to games when they could sneak away from their demanding class schedule at Harvard. Or perhaps we are having a conversation about the weather, in which they pipe up about how cold winters can be in Cambridge, on the campus of the university they attended (which by the way is called Harvard). Or even still, maybe it’s in the signature line of the emails they send. Which seems absurd, but I have seen it happen.

What came first? The education or the attitude of competition that they were somehow better than everyone else? (and I’m sure someone reading this is an incredibly humble ivy-league graduate…who wants to leave a comment telling me that not everyone from those schools would respond this way, but then you’d have to mention you went to Harvard, thus furthering my point).

But the art of competitively throwing every achievement in someone’s face can start on any level.

Perhaps you are a really good cook, and insist on sharing your recipes even though no one is listening.

Or maybe you too have lost weight and feel the need to shove your new workout routine and diet down everyone’s throat, when weight-loss is really just as simple as burning more calories than you eat.

And I am sure your toddler is incredibly advanced for his/her age, which is exhibited by the fact that they do something that is so ridiculously cute that you must alert anyone who will listen, because it is important that toddlers are good at things.

And yes… your blog has a lot of unique hits a day, the shampoo you use really does smell better than anyone else’s, and the guys that pass on the streets really are smiling at you because you are the prettiest girl that has walked by all day (not because you have something stuck in your teeth).

It is human nature to want to be good at things. I’d also submit that it is probably human nature to want to share your victories with others, especially when your victories can be weighed against your peers and you can rightfully claim yourself as the most spectacular person to ever be spectacular… but what is it all for?

And in the age of humble brags, blatant brags, and arm sprains for perpetually patting oneself on the back, it is important to remember that the best source of competition comes from within: in those events where the victories are for no one other than yourself.

The next time you get a promotion, your toddler makes exceptional macaroni art, or you finish a marathon you’ve been training months to finish…. do us all a favor: pop the cork on a bottle of champagne, pour yourself a victory glass, and think about what the accomplishment means to you personally, rather than demanding everyone around you to partake in the celebration…. because the person whose life is affected by your wonderfulness is your own, not those around you.

I came in second place in a basketball skills challenge in fourth grade. While I don’t remember a lot of the specifics, I still have the plaque that was presented to me by the administrator of the Nike basketball camp in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. It’s my first recollection of ever coming in second place at anything sports related that was based on individual skills. I prided myself on being an accurate and precise Center, practicing hundreds of shots a day, including left-handed layups. My dad always told me that if I wanted to be the best basketball player in the leagues, I hard to learn to shoot left handed. And for hours at a time I’d plant my feet firmly on our concrete driveway, and practice with my right hand tucked into my pocket so I couldn’t cheat.

And yet, I came in second.

I had every intention of taking the day off of work on July 23rd, 2009. I requested the day off in the usual way–put it on the shared calendar, emailed my boss to let them know I would be gone that day. And I spent the morning catching up on projects, sipping coffee on my back porch while I stole wifi from my neighbor who always kept the network unprotected. The guy I was dating showed up with lunch, roses, and tickets to that afternoon’s White Sox game (which for future reference, is the fastest way to most girls’ hearts). And just as we approached the train to go to the game, my boss called to say there was a major issue with a client that I needed to return to the office and address. I regrettably sent the boy to the baseball game by himself.

On July 23rd, 2009, Mark Buehrle threw a perfect game…and I missed it.

I am sure everyone has these stories of being a day late and a dollar short, and that mine aren’t unique. I am also sure everyone has stories where things worked out exactly as they should have, or were aided by the mysterious karma of the universe–somehow making things better. But for me, it seems that I have continued to live my life as a series of miscues where I never seem to get the timing right.

I have only told one person I was in love with them in the last three years. It turns out that he loved me as well, but he just loved his fiancee (I didn’t know about her) a little bit more. And had it not been for the fact that she was pregnant with his child, he would have considered leaving her for me (his words, not mine) as though it was some sort of consolation for being wonderful, but just late and infertile to the party.

When I told my boss in Louisville that I was leaving my ex-boyfriend, and subsequently leaving the area, she laughed. Not because the situation was funny, but because that day she has finally been given approval to give me a long anticipated (and much-deserved) promotion.And while I suppose I could have stayed, the truck was already booked, the boxes were packed, and the memories of a city that was the first place that felt like home (partly for a love of the city, and partly for the person I’d lived there with) made it just too unbearable to stay.

Three years later, deciding to leave Chicago never seemed like a mistake. In fact, it was well-calculated, detailed, and things did fall into place with relative ease. The first person that responded to my craigslist ad about my apartment is the person who ultimately rented it. When I asked my parents if I could move in with them while I searched for a new job, I did not even finish my sentence before they both said ‘yes.’

And my going away party happened much like my Chicago experience began–intoxicated, surrounded by friends, and hopeful that the one person I wanted to notice me since I had arrived three years earlier would finally seize the opportunity to feel the same way I did.

But as smooth as the transition out of Chicago was, my duration in Michigan was the complete opposite.

When we unloaded the moving truck, everything was put into the garage. Pillows, furniture, baseball cards: all stacked in boxes, all in the garage. Lola sat in her favorite chair in the garage in near-silent protest as everything was unloaded and haphazardly placed on those wire plastic shelves, growling when anyone would walk closer to her. And while I just took the essentials inside, not knowing how long I would be there, I got that answer very quickly.

The night after I arrived, I went out for drinks with a man who is easily the most interesting and engaging had dated (or met) in a long time, possibly ever. As singles girls are wont to do, I have a long list of things I’d ideally like in a man, because when it is all in the fantasy stages, we have every right, obligation even, to shoot for the moon. This man had all of them, down to the fact that he handed me the remote and told me that he wanted *me* to have it, so I could flip back and forth to both playoffs games. And when he woke me up hours after I had fallen asleep with my head on his shoulder, instead of telling me he was tired and I should leave, he kissed my forehead and said, “Leave? You just got here. Stay awhile. Stay forever, if you’d like.”

And the moment he uttered those words, I knew I would get the job.

The job was exactly what I was looking for in a post-graduate position. It was presented as a job that could use my abilities in analysis and programmatic design on a program that really makes a difference in people’s lives. From the first time I read the job posting, it seemed like an amazing opportunity, one that someone with my experience and education would be lucky to land–and yet, they were contacting me, of all their applicants, for interviews. And while I had been nervous on all of the phone interviews, after the night of bourbon, baseball, and bearded company, I knew there was no reason to be nervous–because timing has a way of offering us glimpses at things we could have, if only the situation were different.

When I told my best friend I had met a boy AND had a job interview, he remarked, “Oh, not only will the company offer you a job, they will make you Vice President.”

In less than a week, I had three phone interviews, a trip to DC to meet with the decision-makers, and an offer letter in hands less than 24 hours later. Sometimes, life is funny.

Even though I accepted the position, I still had a desire to see the guy again. When I texted him to tell him I accepted the offer, he was genuinely happy for me, though expressed his disappointed that I would be leaving so soon (24 days, to be exact) after we had met. Instead of sulking,  we made the best of the situation. And though our busy schedules only allowed us to have four (amazing) dates, we cursed the time we could not spend together because of other obligations, but embraced each moment we could spend together. We had dinner. We stayed up until sunrise talking. I saw his band play at this incredibly tacky college bar, where he embarrassed me in front of everyone by telling them all he thought I was beautiful over the PA system between songs.

And while all of my belongings remain in my parents’ garage, with Lola nearby to guard them until I find a place to live here, I am now living 547 miles away on a leather-sectional in my sister’s living room. There is a real urgency to get settled in Washington, DC, not just because I am living out of rubbermaid containers and sleeping on a sofa in a mid-rise that has fire-alarm issues and too much train noise, but because no matter how difficult timing, missed opportunities, and what-could-have-beens weigh on my mind, embracing the present seems like the only option.

I left earlier in the morning on Saturday to start my drive to DC much earlier than I had originally anticipated, so when he texted to tell me good bye and travel safely, I was already in the mountains of Pennsylvania, trapped in a heavy snow and ice storm. Talk about timing.

 

 

 

 

I gave up dating for the summer.

This was a self-imposed “No-Dating” rule, and as someone who spent the better part of three years as a serial dater, this decision was more difficult than it sounds.

I never considered my dating life as busy, but I realized that every time I went out with girlfriends they would ask about how the dating life was going, and I’d have a handful of stories to recount—most of them terrible.

Somehow I had developed the idea that dating, and dating often, was just what single people did. Single people that did not go out and have drinks with members of the opposite sex at least once a week just seemed odd to me.

What were they doing with all of their free time?

But after looking back on the past three years of dating, short-relationships, and  heartbreak, I felt it important to go back to square one: no dating for the summer.

And when I said no dating, I meant it.

There wasn’t to be any interaction that could be confused for dating. No getting drinks with a kind gentleman from Twitter that I had a crush on. No meeting men at my favorite bar. No getting coffee with the classmate I’d been interested in throughout my whole graduate program. And absolutely no surfing Match.com.

And surprisingly, I only broke the “No-Dating” rule once. And honestly? I didn’t miss it.

By shifting the attention from other people back to myself, the results were tremendous. When I embarked on this dating-free journey my friend Sarah gave me a piece of advice that became the mantra for the summer: If there’s no one there to spoil you, spoil yourself.

…and spoil myself I did.

The summer’s mission was to see how much happiness I could create for myself (and those around me) and I would consider that mission accomplished. Since I spent most of the summer hesitant to write, here are the highlights from the Date-Free summer.

The City: I started this summer realizing that it could very well be the last summer that I ever spent in Chicago. With the completion of school and the desire to relocate, the prospect of never living within walking distance of all of the places and sites I love struck a sense of urgency in me to do and see everything.

• I went to the remaining museums I had not seen.
• I spent evenings down at the Harbor with Lola watching the sailboats.
• I finally went to Kuma’s for one of those obscenely large (and delicious) burgers.
• I stayed out until 4am one night, just to go to Carol’s.
• I walked around my favorite neighborhood and chased tennis balls in Welles Park with my dog.
• I had cupcakes twice from my favorite cupcake place. And while those calories might be regrettable, there’s something about enjoying every cupcake like it could be your last.

School: I completed the last two classes of my graduate school program. Since I had a bit more free time than usual (see: no dating) I really dove into my final semester and enjoyed it to the fullest. I completed the most in-depth research project of my educational career, something I’d spent three semesters working to complete. Having a beer with my classmates overlooking the Art Institute the night we handed in our final projects is easily the proudest moment of the summer.

Traveling: It’s a bit difficult to travel on a shoestring graduate student budget, so this became the summer of road trips.

• I saw the Black Keys in Milwaukee.
• I surprised a friend in Indianapolis by showing up for her birthday party.
• I visited family in Michigan.
• I spent one impressive summer evening on a beach in Indiana (I didn’t know they had beaches, either) with a flask of bourbon and one of the best girlfriends.
• I drove the 12 hours to Washington, DC to see my sister for two weeks.
• I went to Boston, which was one of my favorite weekends of the summer.

While some of those trips involved other people, some of them did not. There’s something to be said for vacationing alone, and I think embracing being alone is something that most of us are not capable of doing.

But this time, something was different for me.

The countless hours in the car with my own playlists were perfect. No one to tell me to turn it down or stop singing, I put the accelerator to the floor and sang like Mick Jagger for hours on end.  And the prospect of walking the streets of Boston agenda less (and alone) brought a genuine smile to my face, as I ambled along Newbury Street. It was in the moment that I sat on the cobblestone patio of a small coffee shop sipping a café au lait that I realized what it meant to truly embrace happiness in solitude.

Baseball: Easily the best part of the summer free of dating was the baseball. And there was a lot of it.

It’s amazing for someone who writes as much as I do, that I’ve never developed much of a memory for things. I put my journaling skills to good use this summer in an attempt to remember more baseball. Along with the scorebook I use at every game, I kept another notebook in which I logged all of the games I attended. This notebook has a pocket, so I kept all of my ticket stubs and random baseball cards I’d collected along the way in there.

29 games at 11 different ballparks*

And having the opportunity to see so many games this year has really helped evolve my love of the game. Going alone allowed me to focus on keeping score, studying pitchers, and getting back to the fundamentals. Being there gives you the time and the angles to study the shift and the fundamentals of the game that you can’t always see on TV.

When I watch a game at home, my tendency is to focus on things like on things like sabermetrics and the pitch(fx), but at the game, the focus becomes simpler– like did the right fielder remember to back up the throw to first?

While I’m not sure I will ever have the opportunity to see this much baseball again in the future, I will embrace this summer of baseball as one of my greatest memories of this stage of my life.

I’ve been hesitant to do any writing lately, but when I woke up this morning to 61 degrees and the beginnings of that fall smell, I knew it was probably time to reflect on the summer and look forward to all of the changes that come with this fall for me.

In two weeks my time in Chicago will be over. Just in time for fall, I’m relocating to a place where I can appreciate the leaves changing, cider mills, and eat those delicious apple cider donuts.

I am trading the city noises of trains and sirens blarring for a quiet porch that backs up to a completely silent field (I plan to listen to the playoffs on the radio from this spot).

And I’ll spend the fall trying to figure out what changes I need to accomplish by the following summer…because it seems like my life will be dramatically different by then.

*This number does not include spring training games.

My cousin Mandi had never been to Boston before, and it’s likely that she’d never choose to vacation there.

She grew up in Richmond, Virginia, married her high school sweetheart, and was very content there raising her two children. Traveling the world (or even the eastern seaboard) was never a priority for her and she felt comfortable at her home in the country.

So, when I got the call to meet them in Boston two years ago, I was rather surprised. Without hesitation, I rearranged my schedule (with just two days notice) to meet them in Boston for the week.

I wish I could say the trip was a spur of the moment decision for leisure, but it was a trip of last resort. With her cancer progressing, the doctors in Richmond told her there was little they could do for her anymore, but as a mother (1 year old daughter, 4 year old son) that answer wasn’t acceptable to her.

Mandi was a fighter long before she found out she had cancer, and she viewed her illness as just another roadblock she’d have to get around to live the life she’d always dreamed of.  As a woman with faith in God, she knew that she and her children would be taken care of regardless of the outcome, and continued to battle.

When it was suggested that Mandi go to Boston to meet with specialists at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, she scheduled the appointment and took the Amtrak from Richmond to Boston with her husband and young children, since she was not allowed to fly.

I had a great time at the New England Aquarium, chasing the penguins with her daughter, Cameron. We went on a duck boat tour, and I kept blowing my duck caller to make her son Eddie laugh, much to the chagrin of others on the boat. I took them on their first cab ride to see Fenway Park, and I’m pretty sure the lobster rolls we ate were their first.

Later in the week, Mandi went to meet with doctors at Dana-Farber.

I wish I had better news about the outcome of the meeting at Dana-Farber, but after a couple of days of testing, the doctors told her there was nothing they could do. The news was defeating, but the experience and care from the doctors and nurses at Dana-Farber was exceptional. They realize the sensitivity of the news they were delivering and treated her with respect and care. For that, I’m grateful.

After more treatment in Richmond and treatments in Philadelphia, my cousin returned home and continued to pray and she continued to live her life the best way she knew how—raising her two young children, teaching them all of the lessons they’d need in the future in a short time.

When she died on March 1^st  of this year, I was shocked. She had been doing better in the weeks preceding her death, but I was relieved that her struggle was finally over. I was fortunate this week to make the trip to Richmond to see her husband and children, who are now 3 and 6.

These children are pieces of their mother. They are just as innocent, with the same blue eyes, blonde hair, and giant smiles. They are faithful and polite, and full of life and energy, just as I remember their mother. While they are adjusting to life without her, it’s a shame when any child has to grow up without a parent.

The moral of the story? Cancer sucks.

I’ve lost my grandfather, my aunt, and my cousin to cancer in the last six years. Both of my parents are cancer survivors. I’ve watched friends, family, and coworkers struggle with the illness and it never gets easier…but we can’t give up hope on making a difference in the lives of those who are affected by this illness.

The Jimmy Fund, since its founding in 1948, has supported the fight against cancer in children and adults at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, helping to raise the chances of survival for cancer patients around the world.

The Red Sox partnered with the Jimmy Fund ten years ago and have done a telethon each year to raise money for Dana-Farber, and the stories of the children and adults who have undergone treatment there are extraordinary—and many are thriving because of donations from ordinary people who want to make a difference.

Today’s the last day of the telethon, so if you can find a bit to spare, I would personally appreciate you considering a donation. If you can’t donate now, they accept donations any time. I’ll continue to make a donation every year in honor of my cousin…because even though it was too late for her to receive treatments, I know the dollars that I donate could change the lives of others, and there’s no memorial in Mandi’s honor better than that.

Editor’s Note: This one is less about sports and more about life. This post comes from a series of conversations and confusions myself and other single friends have had over the past few years of singledom. There have been countless conversations, bottles of wine, laughter, and sometimes tears with dear friends will discussing the confusing nature of dating. So, while I’m sure there’s plenty of men who can relate to this one…it’s safe to say that this one is for my girls, all of whom I love and value more than anything. 

It’s no surprise that technology has changed dating.

In many cases, we flirt and meet via the Internet. There are dating sites and accidental dating sites—like Twitter.

It’s also no surprise that the evolution serves as a reminder that no matter how much I think I’ve figured out the dating , there’s always another curveball that makes it much more confusing.

I wouldn’t say I’m a connoisseur of dating, but I will say that since I have been single for the past three years, I’ve done my fair share. My fair share includes a couple of 3 month relationships, and a calamity of awkward first dates and second dates, in which the worries are the same as they always were.

Is it okay to split the check? Will he walk me to the train? Is he going to show up at all?

But those worries predate the addition of technology. I’m sure there are cave drawings that depict a girl staring longingly out the window (or cave hole) waiting for her man to arrive from the drags.

But in the technology age, dating is a lot different. The best I can figure is that I’ve settled and fallen victim to the worst kind of relationship: the Textual Relationship.

I am partially to blame for these Textual trysts. I spend more time than I’d like to admit using social media, the Internet, and clutching my iPhone as though I will stop breathing if it’s not in my possession. I often find myself flipping from screen-to-screen on my phone just waiting for something to happen.

I can’t stand the idea of an email coming in that I don’t check. If I don’t respond to a text message within five minutes, it’s likely my text partners will send out a search party for my whereabouts. I went one day without updating my Twitter account and was greeted the next day with a barrage of messages demanding to know why I was absent without explanation.

And I’m assuming the Textual relationship stems from this—two people’s desires to have someone else thinking about them, contacting them, and relating to them continually. But, the unfortunate side effect of the textual relationship is that it seems to end there.

I’m not monogamous in my Textual relationships. I’d say at this moment, I have three solid textual relationships, which span several different mediums—text messages, emails, and social media. And the fact of the matter is that I really have no idea where any of them are going.

To illustrate the point, my longest textual tryst has been going on for over a year.

We attended a few baseball games together and honestly, I adore his company. He’s cerebral, yet relatable. He’s funny, yet sensible. He’s taller than me, which is always refreshing.

Our textual relationship blossomed during football season. Even though we supported different teams, we would armchair quarterback all day Sunday. Our texts were much more insightful than any Al Michaels/Cris Collinsworth banter, and things would occasionally become flirtatious.

In these relationships I find myself answering texts in lightning speed, and in high frequency. After all, how does a text conversation end? People don’t often say goodbye, so it’s an endless dialogue that can go on forever…or until someone falls asleep. But it starts back up the next day. Through conference calls, on train rides, on trips, and during games. And there’s a desire to keep it going, not just for conversation sake, but because there’s potential for more…or is there?

When I finally saw him again, months into our Textual relationship, he finally kissed me. Which, I took as a good sign that perhaps we’d return to real-live dating, instead of live-texting a game to each other, considering we live just a couple miles apart.

As much as I appreciated the picking on Tom Brady, and the genuinely concerned text messages I received when Austin Collie was injured, it just isn’t the same. I’d rather hold his hand than clutch my iPhone… but maybe I’m just old-fashioned.

The Internet makes it difficult to determine motives. It begs the question that many of us have asked: Is he texting because he likes me and enjoys my company, or is he texting because he has a desire to talk to someone, anyone, because he is bored?

Girls seem to reach the same conclusions on this. He could be any of the following:

A)   He just wants to be friends (how can we just be bros with those beautiful eyes?)

B)   Incredibly bored (he would text is grandmother if she could figure out how to use her Jitterbug)

C)   A sadist who enjoys the idea of confusing intentions (malice is ugly)

D)   Absolutely clueless (he’s clueless, perhaps even content, in a fake internet relationship)

E)   Feeling a need for affection/closeness not found elsewhere (guys don’t get lonely, do they?)

And this pattern continues to happen.

 And the more women I’ve talked with admit that they’ve all had these textual trysts that blur the lines of reality and dating… and there’s one common theme: we’re all confused.

Conventional wisdom might suggest that he’s just not that into us and if he were he would just ask us out. But in a world where he knows I’m available 24/7 through a variety of mediums, what’s the rush?

This piece first appeared on Saves and Shutouts during the site’s week of honoring Pedro Martinez. 

Full Disclosure: I have dated two Yankees fans.

The most recent was last year. We met through a mutual friend at a party, and he’d asked for my phone number. Successful and handsome, I considered him out of my league, but when he called I agreed to meet him for coffee.

We met before class, which parlayed into skipping class and getting a little handsy in a public park while we stared at the stars listening to a Pavement concert across the street.

The next date, he took me to a nice dinner where he seemed incredibly nervous. Sweaty and uncomfortable, nose crinkled as though he smelled something offensive. I asked if he was alright, and he stammered through his answer, staring at his dinner plate.

“After I got your number, I googled you. I don’t know how to tell you this, but… I’m a Yankees fan.”

Dinner with the enemy.

I was shocked that my friend hadn’t warned me about his baseball allegiance. And his nervousness on this topic, made me uncomfortable.

I could date a Yankees fan, right? Was it a big deal?

Perhaps he was afraid I would have made a scene by throwing my glass of bourbon in his face and storming out… but I’d never waste alcohol like that. Plus, sometimes, I’m a lady.

We broke up later that week when he decided to get back with his ex-girlfriend, making him the second Yankees fan to treat me unkindly.

 I went into my first real relationship knowing he was a Yankees fan.

Growing up in the Midwest, New Yorkers seemed like they were a different species.

The way they talked, their ability to ride on trains for long periods of time without getting sick, and their affinity for floppy pizza and soggy bagels.

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