When Sharon was in high school, one of the moms gave her group of friends tickets behind the dugout to a Giants game. The girls, generally apathetic to baseball, spent the afternoon tanning and reading magazines.
Fast-forward to last night. We grabbed dinner at Fuddruckers in Chinatown. Sharon was shaking with anticipation, encouraging me to eat as quickly as possible.
"OMG! THERE'S GONNA BE PIEROGIES! AND TEDDY! AND CLIPPY! AND STRASSY! AND MATTY! (our friend)"
To which I wryly replied, "You don't have to pretend to like baseball for my sake."
You see, last night was Stephen Strasburg's major league debut. He's the most hyped pitcher I've ever seen. He struck out 14 batters, a Nationals record. The little scoreboard that tracks the K's ran out of room and just had a little button that said "plus 12 more." I've never been to a game where the whole crowd stands up every time there are two strikes, or where "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" is completely drowned out by people chanting the pitcher's name.
These days, Sharon sometimes watches the Nats when I'm not home. Or pleads for us to go to the game on the weekend. Every time we go, she insists we take a picture with Teddy (there's even a picture on this blog of Little Teddy rockin' the ring). She runs up to the railing to cheer on the racing presidents in the middle of the fourth.
The other day, I said, "You know, Sharon, you actually have a favorite baseball team now." She thought about it for a moment, and then said I was right.
She's come a long way. It's nice to share an activity that we both genuinely enjoy (though I'm less in it for the mascots and hot relief pitchers).
Baseball has one final element in our lives. Often, Sharon will ask me to put on the radio broadcast of a West Coast baseball game when she heads to bed. She's always asleep within the inning.