In real life, I’m actually quite competitive. Which means I like watching competitive sports. Which means I like baseball. Now, the problem is, I am not really allowed to say the name of the team that I cheer for out loud. Brother insists that if I claim to like a certain player, it means certain injury or an end to a career for said player (i.e. Corey Patterson, Todd Walker, Todd Hundley (okay, some who read this blog would say Hundley never totally got a start to his career), Mark Grudzielanek, Joe Girardi…I could go on); so this year I’ve been careful to keep my true feelings very quiet (but his name starts with De and ends with “Rosa”.). Remember the whole accidental buying of Yankees pajama shorts? That led to the demise of my team in 2003. I have been on pins and needles this last week as my team is attempting to keep up their winning ways. So I am whispering this post.
I offered my Grampa anything he wanted if he would just let my team win all three games against his team this weekend. And he did, which was gracious. (He wants a spankin’ new, fancy shmancy Cadillac. I said I was rather hurt he didn’t just say, “dinner with you, honey dearest darlingest granddaughter”).
So, I won’t say anything, but I will include this example of my fandom – I keep the schedule on my fridge each season and yes, the moods are real and solely based on the outcome of the games: