Nothing. And if you had asked me 10 years ago that would have been the end of the discussion, but these days it’s not that simple. You see, twelve years ago I married not just a fan of the game, but a fanatic. And it has caused some difficult moments--playoffs on our wedding day, the World Series during our honeymoon.
But I knew what I was getting myself into. On our first date my husband told me the best day of his life was one that hadn’t happened yet. It would be the day when he could play catch with his son.
So it seemed only fitting that I took my first pregnancy test while he was at a ball game on Father’s Day weekend, presenting him with the results when he returned. The man who had played catch with his future offspring a million times before in his head could start looking forward to a very real moment in time.
As childhood does, the years of our son Luke’s life passed quickly and it seemed like almost no time before father and son were sharing that moment. What blossomed from there was a genuine love of the game. Luke’s grasp of the sport and his commitment to improving his knowledge and skill amazed both of us. We would wake in the morning to find him watching dated, obscure games on Yankee Classics or playing catch with himself in the living room. When we moved into a new home, the grass in our backyard was quickly worn down into the shape of a diamond where neighborhood kids ran the bases in almost nightly pick-up games. We even painted a baseball diamond on the floor of the kids’ play room.
When Luke was old enough to start playing Little League I was surprised by the flickers of passion stirred up in me as I watched him do something he loved so dearly. I easily got choked up when people would yell, “Good job catcher!” or “What a hit!”
Around that same time, my husband, my son and his grandfather started making annual trips to Yankee Stadium. Three generations of Brandow men would travel there to worship their favorite pastime. And though I was home alone, with total control over the remote, I found myself watching the game—trying to catch a glimpse of them, wanting to see what they were seeing, so when they described it to me I would “get it.”
Just last night I was regaled with tales of how they secured a coveted commemorative, wooden bat that Luke says is his dream come true and how they saw Mark Teixeira (IT’S MARK TEIXIERA, DAD!!! MARK TEIXIERA!!!) leaving the stadium. The animated way that Luke and his father tell these stories puts me right there with them, and my heart swells with love, appreciation, awe and gratitude for this gift the men in my life share—the one that binds them, despite the 73 year age span from son to father to grandfather.
So what do I love about baseball? Still nothing. But I love what they love about baseball, and I love them. So I guess that makes me a fan.
