I had a teacher in high school named Cindy Cravey. We all called her Cindy Crazy because this chick was nuts. Well, technically, she probably wasn't certifiable, but she did things that would get her fired today. Once, she paid her nail technician to come to our school and fill in her acrylic tips during sixth period while she told us lurid tales of Greek gods having sex with minors and farm animals. On a field trip to the Renaissance Festival in south Florida, she plopped down in the bus seat next to my best friend and me and confessed that she wasn't wearing any underwear because she'd been too busy to do laundry, and, oh, by the way, did either of us have a tampon?
Okay, maybe she was certifiable ... but also incredibly entertaining.
I mention Ms. Cravey because she said her ex-husband often accused her of being a dilettante. I thought that sounded rather exotic and mysterious until I looked it up and realized two things: one, Ms. Cravey may have been a dilettante concerning art and music, but she most certainly knew her mythology on levels no one could call shallow; and two, it would be far cooler to be a little knowledgeable about several interesting topics than to know every arcane detail about only one thing, like Star Wars, for example, to the point of stupefying your friends at cocktail parties or dressing up as Boba Fett to lurk around sci-fi conventions. Being a dilettante didn't sound exotic or mysterious, but it also didn't sound so bad.
Enter my new, rather surprising, interest in the Los Angeles Dodgers. I've never liked baseball, other than cheering on my little brother at little league games circa 1982. Compared to the testosterone rage of football, baseball always seemed to me to be rather meek and twitchy. Seriously, why do batters fasten and unfasten their gloves, step away from the plate, tug at the seat of their pants, return to the plate, adjust their cap, tap their bat in the dirt, rotate their butt clockwise, spit ... and so on, until I eventually yell, "C'mon! Hit the damn thing!"
But I love the Los Angeles Dodgers, nonetheless. And since my love for them is about 12 weeks old, am I a dilettante? I accept.
Mr. Forbes and I watch every game of Dodger baseball on television, happily chanting along with Vince Scully, "It's tuh-eye-mmm for Dodger baseball!" at the start of every game. One Sunday afternoon, Matt shocked me by saying yes to my thousandth request to buy tickets and go see a game live. Well, now, a baseball game on television is fine, but to see the Dodgers in person is quite another altogether. We've been to two games, and I'm begging Matt to take me to a third.
Maybe he's not super anxious to slide me into the seat next to him because a typical 30-second bit of "conversation" with me goes something like this: "Wow, Abreu looks far thinner in person than on television, man do those Dodger dogs smell good, did you bring sunscreen, gosh, I'm thirsty, could I have a swig of water, who the heck is Kennedy, sure do hope Dee Gordon is in the lineup tonight, want some pretzels?"
I love watching these guys. I love the quaint 1960s Dodger stadium with its low breezeway ceilings and tiny concession stand counters. I love that the first 10,000 ticket holders get a bobble head of a former Dodger. I love to wear my Dodger blue hoodie and yell like a maniac when Mattingly screams at the umpire. And I love the way peanut shells stick to the hairs on Matt's legs.
Does this make me a baseball dilettante? Probably. I still don't understand why I'm supposed to aggressively prefer the American League over the National one (or is it the other way around?). Why a batter's performance is noted as a number far less than point-five mystifies me. And the fact that players can be traded mid-season -- or practically mid-game -- makes me nuts. Just as I start to recognize the difference between Mark Ellis and A.J. Ellis, one of them is sure to be sent packing to the Red Sox or the farm league.
However, just the other day, Jairo, a bright kid in fourth period blurted out, "Miss, why do you like the Dodgers so much? They suck compared to the Angels." The rational part of my brain registered that Jairo just wanted me to stop talking about poetry criticism. But the gauntlet had been thrown, so I gamely picked it up. In about two minutes, I statistically -- if not passionately -- flattened Jairo's assertion while the rest of the class raised their eyebrows and dropped their jaws.
Dilettante indeed.
So ... the Dodgers are playing the Astros tonight and are down by three. This is odd since Kershaw is pitching, but so many of our guys -- Kemp, Rivera, Uribe -- are out on injuries, it's a near miracle that we're first in the league. Matt's sound asleep. I'm not going to wake him up.
That is, unless we score.
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