I've Been Trumped

As I sit here watching my husband watch baseball for some unknown team on his computer, I smile.

I always thought I was a sports fan. I haven't missed a Northwestern football game since I started attending school there. I never turn down a ticket to a baseball or hockey game. Heck, I can even tell you when you do and don't have icing called in a game.

But my husband? He's a whole different breed. To me, baseball just isn't a fun sport to watch on tv. If I'm doing something, I'm fine with a baseball game being on in the background, but I won't turn it on as a solo activity.

My husband cheers for the Cardinals. Let me tell you, the Cardinals are not one of the teams playing on his computer. And yet he's engrossed. He's learned to have his earplugs in because after too many years of baseball 24/7 for eight months, I can only stand baseball for two or three games a year now.

He's trying so hard to be quiet, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see him failing. He's waving his arms in the air above his head in celebration before realizing what he's done and pretending he's just stretching. He wrings his hands together before nonchalantly scratching his nose. A yesssssssssss escapes every once in awhile.

And each time, I look at him and giggle. He gives me a helpless look, but then it's back to the ballgame.

I finally asked him who he was watching. It was the Twins. That's my team. I'm the one who cheers for the Twins, who can tell you the 1987 batting order, who bought the wee ones all theri baseball gear. But ... I don't care anymore. I don't even ask him the score.

But I'm not hopeless. I can tell you that football starts late this year. That the first weekend of September is still preseason. That counts for something, doesn't it?