American Fun

I was not born with a baseball gene predisposing me to the disease. Nor did I develop “baseball disease” as a child or teenager. However, I married someone with two baseball genes and a serious infection. Still, I resisted. I watched the games, but more out a sense of spousal duty than anything else. After all, I subjected Cal to viewing numerous versions of Jane Austen movies, though even I couldn’t get through the 1940 version, which was more along the lines of what would happen if you dumped Pride and Prejudice in a blender with Gone with the Wind—it’s an ugly mess.

Back to b’ball. (What can I say? I can never get too far from books.) Luke has always loved baseball—he must have inherited the gene. Over the years, he rooted for several teams. But in his teen years, he settled on his team. The Yankees. The team everyone loves to hate. I sat through games—it was a good time to paint my nails. After years of games, I caught a bit of the infection. The Yankees are my team. And my team is heading for the playoffs again. Woohoo! (Okay, I admit it’s fun to have a team that’s always winning—I’m not a masochistic Dodgers’ fan, though maybe they have a chance with the Yankees’ old coach.)

Come next week, I’ll be rooting for Yankees, second-guessing Joe Girardi, and yelling at the umpire—All-American fun