While his family watches him turn into a crazy man during baseball season, Nate Graziano wishes he could remember it’s only a game.
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I follow baseball and, for me, following baseball is serious business. Despite the fact that the results of a Red Sox game on any given night, in any given season have no bearing on my life whatsoever—these games do not put food on the table or pay my mortgage—I have a tendency to personalize the results. At times, I will fly into apoplectic fits of cursing and screaming at the television, on the fringes of lunacy, as my family watches me like I’m a crazed man. And while watching baseball, I am.
This season the Red Sox are under-performing. Actually, that’s being too kind. This season the Red Sox blow goats. It is only June, but already a team with one of the highest payrolls in baseball has completely unraveled, and for the third time in four years, New Englanders will not have a viable contender to watch during the dog days of summer.
A team of grown men—none of whom I know on a personal level—is not performing up to my expectations and I feel bad for myself.
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As a result, I’ve been indulging in one my baser emotions: self-pity. A team of grown men—none of whom I know on a personal level—is not performing up to my expectations and I feel bad for myself.
How fucked up is that?
Some of this, I realize, stems from the fact that I live in New England. A recent New York Times piece analyzed the most successful sports cities in America over the past 50 years, and far and beyond, Boston came out on top. According to the study, Boston’s major sports teams—the Red Sox, Bruins, Celtics and Patriots—have won titles in 10 percent of the seasons since 1965. Since 2008, every sports franchise in the region has one at least one championship. In other words, I’ve become spoiled. I expect all of the teams to compete, every year, and when they don’t, I pout like a brat.
I couldn’t imagine living in Cleveland where—in another Times article examining the worst suffering cities—they never win. The fact that the Cavs (or more accurately Lebron) are in the championship making a run at the NBA title has the city in a tizzy. In New England, if the team doesn’t win, the season was a total loss.
Sure, back when our ancestors were cheering on their tribal warriors—the origins of our fanaticism—it truly was a matter of life and death.
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But, really, none of it matters. Anywhere. Sure, back when our ancestors were cheering on their tribal warriors—the origins of our fanaticism—it truly was a matter of life and death. It is understandable to feel passionately about the results of a contest when a loss could mean your village was burned, women raped and food stolen.
These days, if the local teams lose, it is not the end of the world. Sports are nothing more than entertainment, something to distract us from the banalities of everyday life—the bills and the jobs and mind-numbing predictability of it all. If nothing else, sports are unpredictable, and that is part of their appeal.
Ultimately, however, the platitude proves true: it’s only a game.
I wish I didn’t personalize baseball. I wish I could watch a game and enjoy its pastoral beauty and its slow rhythms. I wish I could believe what I know to be the truth—it’s only a game.
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Yet I don’t feel that way. And when the Red Sox shit in the proverbial bed, like they’ve been doing this season, I get downright sore and ornery. An appropriate reaction to the team losing would be mild frustration and disappointment. Not me. Instead, I post hotheaded, sometimes irreverent responses on social media in hopes that someone, anyone, will commiserate with me.
I wish I didn’t personalize baseball. I wish I could watch a game and enjoy its pastoral beauty and its slow rhythms. I wish I could believe what I know to be the truth—it’s only a goddamn game.
Most of all, I wish the Red Sox didn’t suck and I had a competitive baseball team to root for this summer. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to pout.
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