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Fantasy Defeats Hurricane

Last night as the rain begin to pour down, and our friends in New York began checking themselves into Hurricanapalooza on four square, there were only two things on my mind. One being do I have to bring inside my window AC. Another, the far greater problem, how will this effect fantasy football?

After years of mocking fantasy nerds, I have stepped inside the strange world that has somehow replaced magic cards with baseball cards. Pi has been replaced with strange self-made ranking formulas. But as my new role as a math teacher this coming year, it seemed my professional responsibility to join a fantasy league.

It is around nine. I set my alarm for 7:30 this morning, to clean my house from the hurricane party in case our power goes out. I also had every intention of organizing and cleaning my room. I figured the neater it is, the less of my stuff will be ruined when this storm crashes all of our windows and floods our entire house. An hour and a half has gone by. I have edited my fantasy team countless times. My room already looks like a hurricane has hit. My AC remains in the window.  I still haven’t gotten around to purchasing a flashlight. I used up all my batteries bringing my radio outside to listen to Sox games.  But I don’t have enough time to fix any of these problems. Instead, I anxiously wait for 9:30, the proper hour to call my fantasy mentor.

I shouldn’t even call him. His wife is due any minute, and there may be a hurricane. There is no way he would be wasting his time with this rubbish. Maybe I will call anyway, need to see how he and his wife are doing in the storm.

 

Stuck in a (glorious) moment in O'Hare

My flight was two hours delayed. Of course I hand't checked before being dropped off, so I had a few hours to kill in the O'Hare airport. With all of the delayed flights I was surprised and delighted to find a seat at the Goose Island Bar right near my gate. The San Fransico Giants were playing the Atlanta Braves. Not two teams I particularly care for, but that I meant I could watch baseball, without anxiety. I soon realized why my seat was empty. I tried hard to focus on the game, but the couple beside me was screaming at each other. One did not want to mosh at the concert because of a sore throat. The other was not "understandably." This discussion kept going until their pints finally finished, and I was alas, left to watch the game in piece.

The other screen had Monday night football. Preseason, but it was football, so I couldn't complain. The bartender kept awkwardly trying to seat men who walked in alone beside me. Maybe she assumed the only reason to go to a sports bar in the airport was to meet a man. Because people are always at their romantic best when their flights have been delayed and cancelled.

By the time the seat filled next to me, I was actually starting to focus on both games, understanding my flight would not leave anytime soon, I had no choice to follow airport sports. It wasn't like being at my home bars, where if ESPN was playing teams I didn't care for, and Joe Buck was announcing on FOX, we could agree on NESN replays. So I adapted. The man beside me had his iPad out, so he could follow all of his home team sports. I asked if there was free internet, and he replied in iPad terms.

Then ESPN flashed an update. Thome had gotten his 599 home run. They also announced they would show his next at bat. The man  next to me briefly discussed sports. We both had been to a White Sox game while in town. Him for a bachelor party, me for an insane life project involving every ballpark and a coffee table. We both had already been to Wrigley and agreed in it's superiority. He went back to his iPad, and I went back to watching and hoping for a Jets loss. Mostly, because the Yankees were winning. It was starting to feel like Kansas City was following me around.

It was Thomes next at bat. The TV switched over as promised, and we sat silently. All of the what-ifs buzzing through the air. And it happened. With mighty force he hit his 600th homer. And suddenly, my two hour delay didn't seem so catastrophic. At the bar we smiled like little kids. Because baseball does that. One minute you are at the bar pissed off listening to a couple fight, and the next minute you are witnessing something completely glorious happen to make baseball history. I texted and congratulated my principal. The only Twins fan I know. And when I finally found my gate, I was the only one smiling.

 

Baseball in Chicago

Primarily I went to Chicago to visit friends and family. The trip had nothing to do with baseball, but as so much in my life, I found some time for baseball. I booked my trip and only hours later bought four tickets to see the White Sox play. It was slim picking for baseball in Chicago. The Cubs were out of town, and the Kansas City Royals were in town.. 

The last time I was at a MLB professional ballpark that wasn't Fenway was in 2006. I went to Wrigley right after Nomar got traded. I saw the Red Sox battle the Oakland As away, as well as the Angels. But this was new territory. And I was hoping for all an out of towner would hope for, a no hitter, and an Ozzie flip out.

Neither happened. It was a relatively normal game of baseball. I almost shook when I mistook fireworks for a South Side shooting. I missed the accents of vendors in Boston. I could not believe my eyes when a vendor walked by our bleacher seats with a Margarita backpack. What was even more amusing was the men a few rows in front of us who bought what the Magarrtabuster called "happy juice" and I saw it was bright pink. Now this was truly a thing of pink hats. 

As the first hit crushed a hit off Danks, my hopes of a no-hitter were also crushed. And with the four run lead, it seemed unlikely that Ozzie would start anything. The game ended, and we took pictures of the Chicago skyline. But I wasn't ready to be finished with baseball for the day. I told my friends, if they really wanted me to move to Chicago, I would need to find a spot to watch a Red Sox game. And not just any spot, a good spot.

We got on the L with a set destination in mind. Nic and Dinos Tripoli Tavern. Two friends displaced from Framingham who had set up a Boston sports bar. On the L we had to tolerate the loud voices of, wait for it, Yankee fans. Finally, we got off and walked to the Tavern.

I could see a Bruins flag and a Red Sox flag gleaming in the sunlight. We rushed in to catch the last full inning of the game. We had already seen the Sox get behind with Wake pitching on the fancy scoreboard at the White Sox game. But we were hoping for a comeback. People around us were in Sox hats. We watched the Sox lose, but somehow it was fulfilling, drinking Harpoon IPA. Unfortunatetely, the Sam summer had been switched to Octoberfest, but losing with each other around, hardly felt like losing.  We only planned to stay for one. 

But every time we got ready to leave another fresh pint was in our view. First by a local, who seemed enchanted by our baseball obsession. And then by Nick, who seemed to enjoy being in the presence of people who couldn't hear his accent. Well, at least, I couldn't hear his accent, until it was pointed out to me. We talked baseball. And for a few seconds, I started to believe Boston was not the center of the universe. 

   

Plus Red Sox

In your late twenties things begin to change. You have less time to think about yourself and do what you want, instead you have to focus on people getting married. You have to focus on the partnerships happening around you.

It's as if people think when they are ready to grow up, so are those around them. Suddenly we are supposed to have money and jobs in which we can take of a day to celebrate a union. Say goodbye to using your personal days on yourself. No more day games. Personal days get filled up for other people's personal celebrations. Going to a baseball game becomes selfish.

I am thinking about starting a registry for myself. I am not married, and I'm  nowhere near even having someone to bring to a wedding. If only I was allowed to bring my radio to weddings. I could be entertained by 850 the entire cocktail hour. I could dance to Sweet Caroline, and Shipping Off to Boston. I want to have a celebration of my union with the Red Sox. In sickness and in health, I will always have them in my life. Till death due me part.

So all I am asking for, is some time. Some time in which no one will judge me. If I want to watch the game rather than go out, allow it. If I have tickets to a day game, and I am supposed to be meeting some family members significant other, so be it. I am with my own plus one. In my late twenties, I am plus Red Sox. And of course, I may take on a few affairs in the off season. I am still crossing my fingers Ochocinco will move in.