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I missed the most memorable game in World Series history.
And it’s killing me.
You’ve all probably moved on from last week’s Fall Classic.
But I haven’t.
If I were a true fan, I suppose I would have moved mountains to watch the late night Game 6 dramatics between the Texas Rangers and St. Louis Cardinals.
But I can’t bear the start and stop of slow online streaming and that dreaded spinning rainbow wheel.
Especially during a heart-stopping game now being touted as the most memorable World Series battle ever.
Fair weather fandom isn’t my style, but I’m not a rabid sports enthusiast either.
University of Kentucky basketball love, for example, is a frenzied affection I’m still puzzling over, but completely respect.
I blame my parents for conditioning me to enjoy baseball, among the many other things 20-somethings end up blaming their parents for.
That’s what you get when you dress your firstborn daughter in Yankee onesies.
I resisted at first.
Back in those days of Little League games, I’d practice my ballet moves in the left outfield. Stick my glove on my head and watch my shadow dance on the baseball diamond’s dirt infield.
Believe me, I was no Ozzie “The Wizard” Smith, who performed backflip acrobatics for the Redbirds.
My incredible lack of athletic prowess on the baseball field and in the batting cages could have left me bitter about a sport I could and will never master.
Live baseball games rendered that impossible.
I developed a phobia for escalators after my first visit to Yankee Stadium, as we went up and up and up into the nosebleed seats.
We’d bring bags of peanuts to old Busch stadium on a warm St. Louis day, tossing crunchy shells under our feet and wiping the salt on our jeans.
Watch moths buzz drunkenly up toward the bright stadium lights during a night game.
I wouldn’t call what I feel for the Cardinals love, although I love the fact that naysayers during playoffs are now eating their words.
It feels more like family.
Because during baseball season, despite what physical or mental state I’m in, I’ll know there will still be pop flies. The home runs that defy the spectator’s exaggerated retellings. Little kids who bring baseball mitts to the game hoping to catch the elusive foul ball, like I did before I gave up hope.
Baseball abides even if everything else falls apart.