Don’t even try to talk to me right now. I’m going nuts.
It’s Game Six of the American League Championship Series, I’m a diehard Yankees fan, and as I type this the Los Angeles Angels are winning 1-0. By the time you read this, the score will have changed—I HOPE!—but this particular moment is so excruciatingly endless I can’t look. Or breathe.
Why do I care about baseball so much if it hurts my stomach and ruins my fingernails (because I chew them when I’m nervous)? Good question. Really, it’s one I ask myself every year, as soon as the baseball season is over, and I think back on all the minutes I wasted following every pitch. And of course every spring I vow to give up my addiction to baseball, and take up something relatively sane, like bungee-jumping.
But of course I won’t.
Everybody has a weird secret obsession. Mine is baseball.