Baseball Wedding Bells

I have a secret. As I sit here watching the Angels and Dodgers play I thought I’d fill you in. I’m working on my second marriage.
My first marriage lasted 30 years. It started in 1975 when I was seven years old. It was an arranged marriage, as I was introduced by my father. I remember our first date and I still have the ticket stub. It was a storybook wedding. The bride was dressed in white, with dark blue trimmings and an Olde English D on her hat.
While growing up in Michigan in the 70s and 80s I lived and died with the Detroit Tigers. The deaths were an annual ritual until Sparky, Alan, Lou, and Gibby brought home the championship in ’84. But in those days, I was young, and if the Tigers lost a game that I attended it ruined my ballpark experience.
In the 90s the Tigers were horrible. And unless you’re a Cubs fan, mediocrity does not make the heart grow fonder. Either does distance. I had moved to Los Angeles where I was blessed to have two teams to watch, the Dodgers and the Angels. And slowly, my relationship with the Tigers started to fade. Without a vested interest I could follow both LA teams dispassionately, laughing quietly at the Dodger fans who hated the Angels, and vice versa. I also learned to better appreciate the game. Not worrying about how “my team” was performing, I could go to Dodger Stadium or the Big A and watch the game, not the teams, soak in the subtleties and keep score without caring about the score. I could cheer when Cal Ripken or Tony Gywnn did something amazing because they weren’t doing it against my team.
My baseball heart in Los Angeles wasn’t all unattached. I grew very of fond both teams. Oh those poor people in Des Moines, or Albuquerque, or Wichita who were without their own major league team. How lucky I was to have two teams. I used to switch the TV and radio stations back and forth, following both teams. It was especially sweet when one team was on the east coast because then they both weren’t playing at the same time. Maybe I was just playing the field because at least once a summer I would get to see the Tigers play in Anaheim. I could wear my Tigers hat and slap high-fives with the seemingly endless crowd of transplanted Detroiters.
Then five years ago, I feel in love with the Angels. It wasn’t the Dodgers’ woes under Fox and McCourt that had me bleeding red. Nor was it Anaheim’s 2002 World Series title that rotated the axis of my heart toward Orange County.
It was the Angels 2005 playoff loss to the White Sox. You remember. AJ Piersynski whiffing at a third strike in the dirt, Angel catcher Josh Paul forgetting to tag him, that horrible no-call by the umpire! Something in my heart of hearts changed. A lever was thrown. A switch was flipped . Sparks flew like a light tower struck by a Roy Hobbs homer.
I … was … an … Angel … fan.
We had a connection. Through injustice and sorrow our hearts were melded together. I no longer had a blue shoe and a red shoe. I wish the Dodgers no ill will. I hope they succeed. But, when the Angels have an off day, I don’t watch the team in blue. My car’s radio no longer has a preset for Vinnie’s unending stories. Until this year, I went four seasons without going to Dodger Stadium. But I have been to Arizona to see the Angels practice. I have four Angels hats, two sweatshirts, and a now very dusty K-Rod jersey. I catch nearly every game on TV, the radio, or on my phone.
In 2006, the Tigers were good again. They made it to the World Series, but lost. I didn’t grieve. I was happy that they did well, but was also more thankful that they didn’t meet the Angels in the playoffs. I was Helen Hunt’s character Kelly Frears to Tom Hanks’ Chuck Noland in “Castaway.” Happy that he’d returned home from all those years on the island, but having moved on.
In 2007, I attended a Tigers – Angels game in Anaheim. For the first time I didn’t wear the hat with the Olde English D. Wearing red, I was surrounded by Detroit fans. These were my people. And I couldn’t cheer with them. I was the enemy. I couldn’t knock fists, bump chests, or smack high-fives. I was alone in a sea of former allies. The Tigers crushed the Angels that night. I left early (it was a work night). I went home distraught, sad, having learned the hard way that I couldn’t root for the Tigers when they played the Angels.
My best friend from high school still lives in Michigan and we regularly communicate about the teams from the Great Lakes State. We still lament the drafting of Darko and wonder if Rich Rodriguez will last another year as the football coach at the University of Michigan. He emails me about the Tigers. I don’t reply. This year both the Angels and the Tigers are near the top of their divisions. I hope both teams make the playoffs, I just pray that they don’t have to face each other.
We don’t know what happened to Chuck Noland as he drives off to deliver the beat-up Fed-Ex package, but I can guarantee that he didn’t invite Kelly to his wedding.