We’ve all been here before. We check our phones because our notification are off, because we’re not narcs.* That sweet moment hits, as we click our team’s line up and the screen loads, that moment of potential, before the cruel pendulum of expectation either dashes our dreams or lifts our spirit to heights heretofore unknown. Which way will the pendulum swing? Once we step through the veil, we are in a world of crunchy, tangible numbers. It feels so damn good. We are transported to days of yore, sitting at the kitchen table while our dad reads the worst sections of the upstate New York paper we receive daily. We pore over box scores, not knowing why. The siren song of baseball statistics is so alien and atonal, yet so full of gravity and beautiful shiny outcomes. Why, even a gangling 7-year-old so bad at tee ball they gave him mercy hits could fall in love with those numbers!
Now we live with a stream of blurbs, for absolute better and for atrocious worse. My Saturday was beautiful, walking across a windswept beach, collecting the shells of the invasive Zebra Mussels, pausing to take a deep breath and saying to my kid, “I feel so lucky to be alive today,” and feeling my love radiate out into a world that finally saw and accepted me.
Just kidding, I doomscrolled the Ke’Brayan Hayes blurbs from 2pm-8pm while trying not to show my family that a blurb had crushed my very essence.
Please, blog, may I have some more?