Game 7

The transformation of Amy Mosiman into a baseball fan has been a slow one. Hindsight revealed that she'd been hibernating beneath the surface all along; emerging like the prophetic groundhog to spout baseball-related jargon before slipping quickly back into her den. I'd occasionally glance up at the TV from my reading and say, "He needs to get his elbow up" or "Two hands on the ball!" Advice I'd learned from the best baseball coach in the world:  My dad. Brad would roll his eyes and just continue watching the game with no comment...bidding his time.

Staggering beneath a fashion avalanche of Royals wear, I finally joined the ranks of the life-long fans in my family (Brad and Virgil), and finally embraced Kansas City in time to watch them win the World Series last year. Fair weather fan or intuitively bidding my time? You be the judge.

And here we are. The World Series once again. But no Royals. Yet...still I watched. I learned about the goat. I bonded with the 104-year-old whose final wish was to see her team win the Series. I admired LaBron James's sports cross-over enthusiasm. I laughed as Bill Murray reved up the crowd while rooting for his team. The Chicago Cubs's left-fielder, Ben Zobrist, is a former Royals player who won the World Series last year. So I cheered first for the Royals, via Zobrist, and then, like Alice down the rabbit hole, fell for the whole Cubs line-up.

Game Seven. You're already nodding. You know. But I was home...ALONE. And I was watching. I knew about Cleveland's pitchers. I knew Kluber was a beast. I watched the Cubs take an early lead. I gasped as the catcher took one to the face and flopped over. Brad and Sydney were calling by now and I was offering sports commentary on the Cubs aggressive batting style. "Each time they're up to bat, it's like they're going alone in euchre," I told my husband, "Each batter may have only three trump in their hand but they're pretty sure they'll at least land a point." "You paint such a picture," Brad sighed unhappily on the phone, pressing harder on the accelerator.

Savannah called, six hours behind me in Hawaii. Cleveland and Chicago were tied up as we entered the 9th inning. "Wait! Will this go into over-time," I cried. "It's called extra innings," Brad corrected me. Unnecessarily. They are the SAME thing! I then argued about how it should go from "bottom" to "top" of the inning because that's how you fill a cup but Brad had slipped snack-size Junior Mint boxes over his ears in an attempt to drown out my voice as I chanted, "Batter...batter....batter...batter...Sa-WING...batter." I'm also a big Ferris Bueller fan. Poor Savannah on a 30 second television delay had to listen to me update her in real time. And even if I could stifle the impulse, she could hear our whole family's real-time out-bursts of delight or despair.

The delay occasionally worked in our favor. "Wait!" I cried, "Was that Santa Claus?" Thirty seconds later, Savannah confirmed my stadium sighting. "Wow," Sydney marveled, "I can't believe all the famous people at this game!"

Rain delay. Oh no. I have to work tomorrow. "So do I," Brad pointed out, "except I do physical labor." I think the definition of "baseball widow" might be wrong. Are you technically a widow if you murder your spouse?

10th inning. Hello, Ben Zobrist. World Series MVP.

You know. You were there too. We all were.