I don't do personal. The last introspective essay I wrote was probably for my college application. The subject was why I can't write about myself. My old man — who I call the old man — didn't think a college would accept me because of it (I call my mother Mugsy, in case you were wondering). But going on 30 hours sans sleep got me thinking.
I spend more time actively thinking/reading/writing about baseball than I care to admit. Fifty hours a week would be an estimate more conservative than Curt Schilling. I watched the Phillies-Braves game at 4 a.m. yesterday, but that wasn't why I was up all night. I had to work. I had an econometrics paper due. On baseball. Why do I do this to myself? Why did I decide it was a good idea to collect my own data and run excessively complex regressions to predict a player's salary? Am I crazy? You know what, I probably would be doing this type of stuff in my spare time anyway, so why not make it schoolwork?
And now it's Opening Day and there's no way I can go to sleep before the NCAA championship game, but over the last couple days, I've come to realize that sleep is overrated. How about we just evolve past this whole charade of having our daily cycles dictated by the sun? Off topic. My bad.
Baseball. My life. I've got that whole-upper-middle-class, white, suburban, Jewish, Northeastern-college thing going. Maybe it's unethical for someone so privileged to waste so much time on frivolity. I don't know. I feel like I've lost some of the pure joy that comes with the game. That comes with age, right? You just don't get those feelings as you get older, right? But I still love baseball more than anything in the world. I do.
See, for me, the business side of sports and the pleasurable side are inextricably linked. I've gotten C's in three economic courses because I just wanted to learn more about statistics — baseball statistics. Whatever, I've prioritized extracurriculars over grades when it comes to that kind of stuff. When someone asks me what I want to do and I give an honest answer, the answer is "baseball." That's it. Just something involving baseball. But I don't think my love of baseball defines me. I think my love of baseball, along with my sense of humor, my social skills (or lack thereof), my morals I guess, and perhaps also my love of chocolate and "The Wire" define me. But baseball's up there.
I write a couple thousand words a week on baseball. I check 20 Web sites about baseball daily. I always have games on in the background when possible. I just bet some money on the upcoming season. I play fantasy baseball. You know that song "We Like Sportz?" That's me. I don't need much to be happy. I don't get bored. I don't get depressed. I like TV. I like food. I like people. I like sports. I don't mind work.
And now here I am, and the Yankees are playing their first game of the year and all is right with the world. The strike zone expands with each ball and contracts with each strike. It's all good. Number 2. Derek Jeter. Number 2. I'm enthralled by the new additions to MLB.TV and Gameday. An extra mile per hour on a fastball is worth a couple hundred grand. Albert Pujols got a hit. That never happens.
It's all good. It's Opening Day. It's all in the game.
You just don't get those feelings as you get older, right? I still love baseball more than anything in the world. I do. But shit gets jaded, man. Nothing will make you more cynical than taking the money angle.
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Jeremy Greenhouse is a sophomore majoring in English. He can be reached at Jeremy.Greenhouse@tufts.edu.
