I recently found myself going through a bit of a rough time personally and was talking about it with a friend.
An avid baseball lover, calling him a fan might understate his relationship with the game. He told me when he was having a similar experience he went to Dodger Stadium. Because when life gets difficult, we should return to the things that matter most to us. There’s a special attachment to the community, to the game and to ourselves.
So I took that advice and while in Kansas City, Mo., I went to Kauffman Stadium.
I’ve read stories of people finding love, grieving loss, celebrating life and everything in between at baseball games. For me, for my friend and for some of you, sports are our escape. We go to immerse ourselves fully in the game’s rhythm.
I find peace. The monotony of the sport that turns some people off is exactly what I enjoy. It pulls me in.
Watching a pitcher work, everything he does leading up to the moment he releases the ball catches my attention. The beer vendors pacing aisles — “beer here!” The people behind me testing each other’s knowledge by discussing some random, little-known baseball fact. The crunch of peanut shells underfoot. The crack of the bat against the ball. The smell of grilled onions and encased meats. The crescendo of excitement as a ball flies into the air toward the outfield. Layers of moments clue our minds in to baseball, the way we remember things that are set to music. You lose yourself in it.
The story isn’t just what’s happening when the ball is in play, it’s continuous. For 2 1/2 hours, what’s happening on the field becomes part of our own stories. We remember where we were, how we felt, who we were with and random minutiae of the moment. Our emotional well-being, temporarily, is in the hands of our chosen ballclub.
Like any relationship, there’s give-and-take. We come to the ballpark to wash off our bad days and celebrate the good, but our moods are invariably colored by the performance of our preferred teams, too.
Unfortunately though, the thrill of victory isn’t always there when you’re a Chicago baseball fan. At least not right now.
The Cubs and White Sox are third and fourth in their respective, not-so-good divisions, and both teams’ front offices leave very much to be desired.
On the South Side, some fans are reevaluating their relationship with their chosen team on a daily basis. There’s anger and confusion; the connection has descended into the part where they wonder why they keep returning and if they should. Maybe it’s time to break up? Maybe another team, with a better record and a front office that seems to care, is starting to look more appealing.
On the North Side, there’s skepticism mixed with hope that despite the players fans have come to love leaving one by one for different cities, the newly assembled group can find its chemistry and bring back the joy you once knew.
Our bonds with our teams are similar to those we have with our lovers and friends. We experience love and loss.
In the offseason we develop expectations, and we constantly adjust them throughout the season to fit whatever situation we find ourselves in. Depending on your disposition, there’s yelling — it could be in agony, it could be in triumph. When they win, sometimes the season ends in a ring and we cry at the ceremony. When they lose, we cry and find solace in the company of others who are familiar with the misery we feel. And at times, our relationships with our teams can best be defined by changing your Facebook status to “it’s complicated.”
The consistency with baseball is its draw. It’s here for six months steady as you like, seven including a wild bout of passion if you’re lucky. And it won’t leave you (… except as Oakland proves sometimes it does.) Sure, it goes cold every so often, but it always returns with the thaw of spring and we get to choose to fall in love all over again.
That’s the beauty of the game, isn’t it?
