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Here at Draft Day Suit we have the good fortune of having some talented friends who write a guest post for us every now and again. One of those friends is Whit. When I woke up this morning this post was in my inbox. It sums up exactly why I love and hate baseball. – Sarah

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I grew up in a place called the 70s, in a state that only knew of professional baseball from ads in the farm team program and the occasional glimpse of summer across a color television.

The blades of our carpet were longer than those of our lawns, and our pants were plaid with bells for bottoms. Things, it turns out, were easy then. It seemed hard enough at the time.

My father had a cousin who played for a number of teams. He pitched for the Reds and the White Sox and spent some time in Texas. I remember his stint with the local Triple A team, his calling to me in the stands to bring popcorn to the dugout. For a 9-year-old boy who was just this side of rock and roll and a few years away from noticing girls and a different set of bases, it was as good as life could be.

Every game was a perfect game.

When he played for the Yankees I took notice. And when Reggie Jackson did what Reggie Jackson did they had a fan for life. Or so it seemed.

Years went by and my love of the Yankees grew. I drove from Tucson to Anaheim to watch Tino Martinez go yard in the 13th inning, only to find out later that SportsCenter started their coverage with an image of me — tired, buzzed, and jumping for a joy that, frankly, was a bit too dramatic for such things as grown men and ballgames.

It wasn’t until years later that professional baseball came to the state of Arizona. It came in pinstripes with Yankee spin-offs at the helm. People assumed I would follow them. People assumed I would jump off the only wagon I had ever known so as to ride with them and the band. THE BAND.

Bandwagons are notorious for squeaky wheels.

I didn’t. I stood my ground, and when the Yankees lost to the Diamondbacks in the World Series the people of the town rose up against me with torches and pitchforks and they called me a monster. I stomped through the streets and grunted a lot.

After a series of twists and turns I wound up in Seattle. My wife and I had two small boys, and aside from the new soccer club we found ourselves sitting on the visitors side of every home team. The excitement of rooting against the masses began to fade, and suddenly I realized that I was going to lose my boys to the cheers of the crowd. I needed to go on the offensive, and in baseball things were offensive enough that it was a fairly easy decision.

The Yankees were being tarnished daily in the papers by players on steroids and the romantic stylings of one Alex Rodriguez. Baseball in general had become harder and harder to take seriously, and the Yankees had the most bodies in the clown car. It was time to jump. I didn’t need a net.

I made the conscious effort to drop one team for another. It was something that I had never done before. Something I had never even considered. I wanted to mock myself, and maybe throw a punch to my stomach.

The Yankees would no longer be my team. My boys and I would bond over the Mariners, and all would be right with the world.

The Yankees won the World Series that year. Yet, it was easier to drop them than I had anticipated. A lifetime of love and innocence had tapered off over the years, a little bit dying with every tabloid exploit and congressional hearing — I didn’t watch a single pitch in the series.

However, picking up the Mariners proved to be much more challenging.

We went to some games. I sipped beers with the neighbors, and watched as a Cy Young winner carried a dead horse for the better part of a season. I cheered when they cheered. I stood when they stood. I went for beers and dogs during play when the lines were shorter.

I realized that it is much harder to cheer for a team that sucks, no matter how many of their flags are hanging in every gas station. I realized that I didn’t need baseball nearly as much as it needed me.

And now, spring is here and I feel the stirring. There is snow on my sidewalk, but in my old state there is sunshine, fresh cut grass and men dancing upon it who are paid to be boys.

It will be summer soon, and my dance card is empty. I long to be wooed like so many years ago. I want my boys to look across a field and see poetry and promise where I see but contracts and dollar signs. I want something to make me feel what they feel. I want a game that plays like one.

I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

[Image, Top and bottom, by Laurie White]

[Image, middle, 67C: A Northwest Sports Blog]

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