Stephen and I went to a baseball game tonight. It was just a silly local game, it wasn’t like the major leagues or anything. And let me tell you, it was BORING. Literally, it was four innings before anyone scored. And it was a short game because they played a double-header today. It was just strike out after strike out. And then the teams would switch. And the next player would take the bat and strike out. Lather, rinse, repeat.
If I wasn’t live tweeting the event for school (and if it hadn’t cost me $30 for the pair of tickets) I would have probably left. The stadium was empty, no one was singing along or doing any fun “baseball” activities. AND I didn’t even get to hug the mascot. It was a total bust. At least the Nebraska team won?
But then something interesting happened. Players stopped swinging at the ball. They were getting balls after balls (please don’t laugh at the gratuitous use of balls) and being walked. Suddenly, the bases were loaded with players who didn’t even really try to get on base. I was getting more annoyed than when they were striking out. To me, being walked because you decided not to swing at the ball seems a little like a cop-out. Look, I know that I’m not like the biggest baseball fan, and I know that balls are often due to bad pitching. But players on BOTH teams were walking player after player because they had given up.
Because I think I’m a new and improved Carrie Bradshaw, I started thinking about baseball and dating and tried to form some adorable connection. Well, guess what? I did. Remember that old Hilary Duff movie, A Cinderella Story? Her dad always said, “Don’t let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.” I mean, I’m pretty sure he was quoting a super famous baseball player, but I think it’s a good lessons.
I have been on bad dates. I have been on such weird dates that I wasn’t sure they were dates. I’ve dated losers. I’ve dated ugly losers. I think it’s safe to say, pre-Stephen, I had pretty much struck out in the love department. I hadn’t technically given up, but I would be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about adopting 70 English Bulldogs and just dying alone surrounded by the dogs.
Here’s the text message to prove it. I was like those baseball players. I had give up. I was just taking walks because at least I was getting on base. I don’t mean that in the sexual, juvenile “LOL SECOND BASE” type of way. I just mean, I was bored. And feeling meh about dating and everything.
But then I threw myself into, well, being my best self. I started working out. I was doing things I loved (like writing for CC) and then something weirder happened. Boys noticed. Not just the losers (or bad pitches, if we’re continuing this metaphor) but these great guys that I could round home with (in the marriage sense, not the sex sense, just reiterating). And there’s something kind of amazing that happens at a good baseball game. Someone hits a ball and it’s looking like a home run and the entire stadium holds its breath. Everyone is waiting for someone to catch it or something to go wrong. It’s scary and exciting and magical, just like a really great first date.
So yeah, you’re going to strike out. I know I have. But sometimes, if you keep swinging, you’ll also get a really great hit.
Molly is a senior journalism/English major at a school you haven’t heard of in a state you haven’t heard of. She’s obsessed with Chandler Bing, English bulldogs, and cheese. Follow her on twitter @mollymahannah, or check out her website accordingtomolly.com.
