Reasons to Hate Baseball by Molly Magestro
I knew it bothered him that I didn’t like watching or following or talking about baseball. “Why didn’t that guy just tackle him? This sport is for wimps,” I would say. Or, “Imagine how useful that bat would be if he didn’t toss it away before running the bases.” Or I would joke about the three hundred and sixty-two more games between the All-Star Break and the World Series. Not one of them mattered to me.
“Couldn’t you at least pretend to care? For me?” he asked.
“Sure I could.” And because it was important to him, I did. I watched televised games cuddled on the couch with him or we listened to them on the radio in the car. And when I wasn’t with him, I made sure to at least check the score online and send him a message to let him know I was paying attention.
He thought that I had seen the light and no longer believed football was the only sport that mattered in October. That I had had a genuine epiphany. And I let him believe it, figuring it wouldn’t hurt anything and that I could come clean once his team won the pennant.
But then they didn’t; they lost game six of the league championship series on a Saturday night. On Sunday afternoon, five minutes before kickoff, I told him the truth about my feelings for baseball. Mine didn’t turn out to be the biggest revelation of the day, however. My team won, remained undefeated, but I could hardly enjoy it at all. Because while I had only been pretending to care about baseball, he had only been pretending to care about me.
Molly Magestro is a writer who teaches. She lives in Wisconsin where she has, within the past year, become a political activist and a PhD. She believes in happy endings, making wishes, and the Green Bay Packers.