I have an obsession. Dicks. I love them.
Whoops I’m sorry, wrong blog. Baseball. I meant baseball. I spend too much time watching, reading about, and playing video games that simulate baseball. I don’t know why, I sure suck at playing. I used to strike out regularly in slow pitch softball. Yes, the same “sport” where killing 30 racks during the game is acceptable. Almost anyone can play, but I can’t help that I’m less athletic than a fat 11 year girl and her midlife crisis suffering dad. So I watch.
But the real obsession comes with the box scores. I check every day. Every goddamn team. I think it started with Fantasy Baseball, but somehow it grew and grew. Now it’s OCD like. Without checking, I feel an uneasy incompleteness. For me, not checking the MLB box scores is like going a day without showering, or brushing my teeth, or god forbid (not the right phrase?) beating off.
It’s not a terribly debilitating condition, and honestly it’s not that time consuming. I’ve got the time. I’m fucking blogging right now: one more step away from you tubing myself singing acoustic covers of Taylor Swift. But the problem is…it’s just kind of weird. I have no good reason to know that backup infielder (DET) Ramon Santiago went 0 for 4 the other night. I don’t cheer for the Tigers. He’s not on my fantasy team. No one has this guy on their fantasy team. Santiago’s mom probably has no idea what he did this week. But I’m checking the box score like seeing a Sac Fly will blow my fucking mind.
I said it’s weird, but cards on the table, it’s creepy. Imagine some ugly guy waking up and going to a website that told him everything you did that day. What’s the box score of your life? Commented on 4 friend’s Facebook posts, 3 responses (3 for 4?) Drank 4 large cups of coffee, took two dumps (2 for 4?) Had sex 3 times, made her orgasm once (1 for 3, 2 errors?)
Even if we were to reduce these real life box scores to our jobs only, they would be just… dreadful. No one cares what you do at the office. Nobody! Fun experiment. Try telling your best friend what your day was like at work. Pause mid-sentence and see how long it takes before they start their own shitty work story. Oh they know full well that you’re not done, but god if they have to listen to another minute of this crap they might have to light your car on fire, email dick pics to your ex (I knew C:/Desktop/mydick was a bad place to hide them), and sleep with your mother as punishment. And they’d be justified.
Baseball players don’t have the choice, but MLB tells me every minute detail anyway. If Ramon Santiago frequents the World Wide Web, I would like to think he’d be pretty interested in checking out how many client issues I resolved, how many faxes I received, and if any of those Grumpy Cat FWDs I sent out got any laughs. (Oh don’t worry, I know they did) But if I’m posting my box score it’s far more likely I deserve to say goodbye to the Mazda. Cover your eyes Sally (not her real name (Fred)). I’m sorry Mom.
I vow to make sure if I’m sharing something in this space it’s not just line items of my boring life. That and to let Ramon Santiago ground out in peace.