People are always surprised to hear that I, a Yankee fan, am married to a Red Sox fan. It’s old news to us, and aside from the 2003 ALCS, when I thought he might either die or kill me, it hasn’t been that big a deal.
That same husband (really, there’s only one) grew up in Philadelphia, so his other team has always been the Phillies.
Though some find it unthinkable, it never seemed weird to me for a person to have two teams, as long as those teams are in different leagues. My son is a Yankees and Phillies fan. (Yankees first, for the record.)
The Phillies aren’t my team, but I’m kind of fond of them. Because they’re the team of my husband, son and daughter (she, like me, has only one team).
So the Cliff Lee thing, oddly, didn’t kill me. I’ll still be watching him pitch a lot, in a ballpark I can afford to attend, by the way. And I won’t be stuck with him when he’s 58, or whenever that Yankees contract would have been set to expire.
I realized, with some alarm, today that there appears to have been some Philadelphia-sports-team spillover into my blood.
This afternoon, I found myself screaming my head off for the Eagles, of all things. I don’t care about football. I only understand about 81 percent of it. But there’s something about surging back, after being down 24 to 3, and winning. Beating your arch rival.
And for me, there’s also something about a happy husband and son.
But mostly, I think it was really at its root, just about missing baseball.
I needed something to root for.
56 days until pitchers and catchers report.