Admittedly, it was a good run. Not great, but compared to the cataclysmic string of non-action I experienced for the better part of almost a year, one could honestly say it was “good”.
Though, one would be hard pressed to say much more about it than that.
Sure, I hadn’t been on a real date since September. And yeah, the spring air got me energized and in just one week I had met three really attractive, interesting women, who — SURPRISE — actually showed interest in me. So, yeah, after a couple of dates I narrowed the choices to just one, putting all of my efforts into swooning her, charming her, whisking her away. And I admit, before long I felt myself falling in… yeah, no, what I mean is: I actually liked her. No, no, I wasn’t getting ahead of myself, but it was clear to me that I actually might harbor some potential feelings down the line — that I wasn’t exactly the mass of impregnable steel I thought I was. And to me, things were going just swell. I even realized that maybe — FINALLY — I might make a surging recovery from the hapless nights of Old Style, Tombstone pizzas and and an endless loop of King of Queens reruns that I had become so, so used to.
It all stopped — suddenly. Like an Aaron Miles foul ball destroying Juan Encarnacion’s unsuspecting face…
Fade to black.
But, dear readers, fret not, because there is an upside to the death of my social life and its name is Baseball.
My MLBtv subscription, and the live games it provides on demand, is much easier on the wallet than dinner and drinks out on the town — more filling than the awkward moments of silence — more satisfying than the barrage of clumsy kisses.
Baseball will never play mind games.
Baseball will never question my sincerity.
Baseball will never send me bland, impersonal text messages.
Baseball will never be offended by my arrogance.
Baseball will never stray from being completely honest with me.
Baseball will never be intimidated by my overwhelming good looks.
Baseball will never drop kick my ego.
Baseball will never ignore my phone calls.
Baseball will never judge me.
And that’s why no matter how down I get, no matter how depressed, how much I want to sit around and feel sorry for myself, all I have to do is turn on the game, sit back, relax and remember that baseball makes me feel good.
Sure, it can’t cuddle with me, cook, or give me a heej, but in the end, who needs all that anyway? With the Windy City Classic less than two weeks away, an exciting NL Central battle escalating and an explosive Southside squad knocking the snot out of the ball, I know I and everything around me, will be just fine…
…at least until October.
After that I might need some serotonin reuptake inhibitors.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.