2014 is over.  There are a couple of also-ran holiday-laced months left, but for baseball people, it’s over.  College football is our almost satisfactory light beer until the good stuff is back on the shelves.

2014 is the year I did the deep dive. This year I not only bought the Prospectus – I READ it. This year I followed both the winter wheeling and the spring dealing.  This year I put a caught-foul MLB ball on display in my office. This was the year I not only crossed the border into Baseballia, I bought property there.  I’m not leaving. Come visit.

Call first.

I say ‘call first’ because 2014 is also the year I finally admitted, after years of denial, I’m an introvert.  Like a Cubs fan realizing in August, that yeah, it’s not a World Series year after all.  By the way Cubs fans, all the signs were there in May. And all the introvert signs were there back in high school.  Eating alone never felt weird, for example.  It felt (and still feels) peaceful, not lonely.

It was never an issue to drive out to see the AA Smokies and just buy a single ticket. Some of this is a winning combo of being simultaneously lazy and spontaneous.  It’s 6:25, I think I’ll go see a 7:15 baseball game. Too late to call anybody else. Anyhow, I’ll run into somebody I know.  And I’ll meet new people by going alone. What if I want to leave early? Who Drives? I wanna drive. And what if the other person wants to sit BEHIND THE NET? What about my wife? Oh yeah, my wife hates baseball.  The list of real reasons and bona fide rationalizations is endless.

A couple of years ago my buddy Camp (best name for a baseball fan I can think of that doesn’t actually refer to baseball) kept telling me that Spring Training in Florida is something worth doing. It didn’t make sense to me.  The games don’t mean anything, the scores don’t count, Florida is a long, boring drive from Knoxville, and who wants to see the Phillies, up close, put together a horrible team yet again? Why see the Yankees in a mini-me stadium instead of a real one?

But, Camp’s word is gold, even when he suggests an obscure German beer joint or claims Black Oak Arkansas is a great rock band.  ESPECIALLY when he claims that. So I went.

It was fantastic.  The fact the games don’t mean anything is part of the joy of it. It takes all the pressure off- all you have to do is relax and enjoy. I sense the veteran players feel the same way. Everybody is chilled out everywhere- that is if you don’t figure in the authoritarian parking managers.

Get there early and watch batting practice with Camp and his dad. Watch the Phillies fans get a jumpstart on heckling their players. Walk the park.  Try different seats.  Try different parks, teams and beer.  See the Astros for once in your life. Hit the Dali museum.  Eat seafood that tastes like seafood. In other words, have some damn fun with your friends.

Since the spring training social experiment went well, I set my sights on the official season. I started meeting up with friends in other cities. Bleedin’ Matt Richardson, Apelife’s supreme drummer, for example. One of the many gems of baseball is the SPACE of the game. It breathes at a great, meditative pace. This leaves time for catching up with interesting friends you don’t see enough in person.  Facebook doesn’t count.  It’s light beer. There, I said it.  The game provides initial conversational fodder- and serves as foreground and background, as needed.  Plus you are outdoors. Americans need to get out more. This will help us all as a nation, I promise. You want to honor America? Experience it.

And so the trend continued. I met soon-to-be dad George at the Smokies Game, ran into Camp’s pop and our pal Gina at the UT park and was invited to sneak into their excellent section.  I co-mingled with Pirates pals on their home turf.

And then the final wall was broken. I took a deep breath and a sip of non-college football beer and then boldly invited a bunch of folks over the house to watch the playoffs. I have never done this for any sporting event in my entire life. This year I did it twice. In one week. And it was awesome. A house full of baseball fans yelling at the TV scares the dog, but it warms you up like a well-stocked fireplace. To top things off we made an impressive snack tray.  Green AND red salsa.  That’s right, both colors of salsa.

And amazingly, I noticed my wife asking questions about pitcher’s counts, BA’s, and starting rotations.  Why is Hunter Pence so weird? Why is Brandon Crawford so cool?  How can the Panda be so agile at 245 pounds? Is Moustakas a real Greek?  Know any good baseball blogs? Did we put out enough salsa?

Heck, I thought, maybe we can invite even more people next time. The less closed you are, the more things open around you.  Funny how that works.

My favorite nail in the introvert coffin, though, was the last game of the Smokie’s 2013 season. I went alone. Of course.  During the second inning there was a tweet contest to win a SKYBOX for the rest of the game. I won.

“How many people are with you?”

“Just me.”

“You need to find some friends!”

Instead I went to the bathroom.  By chance, so did Charlie Thomas, my old pal of many years.  I invited him to join me despite the fear of being rejected, the introvert’s classic secret fear.

He begged out. He was with a large group on the third base line. They couldn’t move all the popcorn and game programs, he said.  I told him to invite them all to stop by for a tour if they got a second.  I went up to the skybox and lived the good life.  It was actually cool to have one all to one’s self.

It was even more cool when Charlie and his pals showed up in the fourth inning.  We had a ball, feet hanging over the railings on a fading summer night. It was the last time I got to hang out with Norris Dryer, someone I often saw sitting alone and happy at many a game.

I dedicate this post to him.  A lifelong White Sox fan, he very recently passed away after an extra-innings battle with cancer.  The night before he died he watched game 7 of the World Series.

He was surrounded by friends.

“Don’t be attached to the outcome.”  Warren Buffet’s wife

If you google that phrase you’ll see that she beats out Buddha for credit on that one even though she said it 2500 years after he did, which should tell you all you need to know about the importance of post-season performance.  If you read the article you will see they don’t even bother to share her name- which should tell you all you need to know about fame and slack reporting.

I digress.

I like digressing.

I just digressed again.

2013, the year the recent World Series Champion Giants imploded like a damaged but well meaning balloon, taught me a great lesson about life.  It’s easy to support winners…. but there is an art to supporting losers. I admit it, I have often unceremoniously abandoned doomed sports teams like an empty gum wrapper. It’s not that I am not loyal. To the contrary, I tend to stick with sports teams and breakfast cereals for life. I do, however, sometimes choose to take breaks when the chewing gets tough.

The actual truth is that I am simply too cowardly to watch it all go down in flames.  It’s ENTERTAINMENT, right? Shouldn’t I be allowed to quit watching when it is no longer entertaining?  Sure. Then why do I feel guilty?

So, perhaps because guilt is the most nagging emotion, when the 2013 Giants began to skid towards Loserville, I promised myself I would watch it.  When they arrived at the Gates of Loserville, I stood with them.  When they were presented with the key to city of Loserville, I helped them frame it in a highly flammable frame.  My wife and I few out to San Francisco for our first live games towards the end of that year.  Our heroes were trampled by both the Pirates and soon-to-be WS Champs, the Red Sox. And how did I react? Just trying to simply enjoy the game for being the game.  Enjoying the people in the next seats as we suffer together. Enjoying the local beer, which tastes the same no matter the score.  Paying attention, without judging that much, as Lil’ Timmy blew another lead. The view. The air. The resonating beautiful sound of the bat hitting the ball.  It’s enough for happiness.  If not, buy a hoodie!  That will show the Red Sox!

I stuck it out until the last matchup of the season, when the Giants pounced on the Padres in a game that was one of the more classic ones I’ve watched.

And therein lies the beauty of sticking with the lost.  For when they return, you won’t be a stranger.

So here it is on World Series eve.  The Giants are going up against the sentimental favorites, the Royals. I plan on doing Yoga and breathing exercises between innings. Like the best players always say: Be in the moment, be in the moment.  It’s easier with the mute button on, I’ve found.

Once I finish a few rounds of deep breathing and complete a passable Tree Pose, I will utter this non-denominational prayer:

Oh, Dear Gods of Baseball, now more than ever- please let me enjoy each and every World Series game despite final tally. May I not be attached the outcome.  And, if you truly have such powers, I just want to be very clear that it’s OK to let the Giants players continue to be attached to the outcome. They can work on any attachment issues in the off season.