First Love

At twenty, and knowing just about as much as I know about men and relationships and dating, as um, I know now, I met a boy to whom I fancied. We slow danced at a sorority party and drank God knows what was being handed out, and he asked me for my phone number on a lawn chair by the pool. I gave him my home phone because I hadn’t yet joined the mobile phone age, we smooched in my then new Chevrolet, and I convinced him there was nothing strange about wanting to take it slow. He asked to see me the night after next, and I was encouraged at his excitement to see me again so soon after our first meet.

I can remember the birthdays and anniversaries of everyone in my life, and what I wore at my 13th birthday party and my 6th grade graduation, and just about every face of anyone I’ve ever met. But for some unknown reason, my memory of my first date on the first date I’d ever been on, is spotty. I remember being at a super market. I remember him forgetting his wallet. I remember me paying and him being embarrassed. I remember falling, as I do. I remember spilling something, as I do. And I remember having a chai latte at the Coffee Bean. I wasn’t yet 21, so coffee was just about as grown up as it came on a grown up date.

I told him how joining a sorority was the last thing I’d ever thought I’d do and how I’d been a year round swimmer my entire life. I told him of my parents and their strife, and my need to leave home at 18 years old. I told him as much information about me as I could because I liked this boy. He told me about the job he had when he turned 16 and how that turned in to the job he has now. He told me about his dog, his parents, vacations he’d been on, where he’d gone to high school, and he told me of his love for baseball.

As the first date, of my very first date, I knew no rules, other than the “make yourself look good” rule. From what you say, to how to say it, to how you clear your throat, and purse your lips and how that sweater looks with those bluejeans. I knew when he talked of baseball, I could not say, I wouldn’t say, I’d never seen a game in my life. I smiled, and I nodded my head, and giggled appropriately, as we do. I said uh huh a lot, and I got information out of him, recording it, as if I was interviewing a suspect in a crime I’d work on cracking later.

Tell me more about this baseball.

He told me about little league, and playing in high school, about the team he plays with now, about how many games he goes to, and every park he’d been at. He then said the words that would change my life,

“I would never date a girl who didn’t like baseball.”

Interesting.

We smooched again, and I returned home, to my apartment, to my life, to ponder this man who seemed through all natural and obvious human ways to have a little crush on me. But how to get around this little baseball hurdle.

Some have found it to be an ability to not commit to anything in particular. My religious teacher says I have a natural curiosity in general. A positive trait he says. My university awarded me with a liberal studies degree after taking a good share of most classes they offer and I’m fairly certain there is just about nothing I would assert does not interest me. I don’t know who’s right. I just know I’m curious about life. It’s an interesting place I rarely understand. And if it means winning the heart of the first boy that’s piked my interest, my boy curiosity, I’d learn baseball.

By the next day I’d found myself to internet explorer and the teams listed as National league and American league. That took a day, and embarrassingly the use of flash cards, to master. I took to stadiums, and schedules, stats, notable players and rules of play. The more I learned, the more I wanted to learn. I’d never met something I liked more, and I’m not talking about the boy. When we’d get together, I’d be picking apart my baked potato at Black Angus and drop gems like, “did you see ____’s sac fly to right that drove in ____ and won them the game?” “How about _____’s homer. He’s now 15th behind ____ in the American League this season for homeruns.”

He was in love. And so was I, with baseball.

He took me to games, and we stayed home and watched them on the couch, and we went to post season and world series games, and once when I stumbled upon Puerto Rico I took a bus for 2 hours to get to the stadium the then Expos played half their home games the last year the Expos existed as a team. We visited stadiums across the country, and I photographed myself in front of them. But it was Dodger Stadium which I loved most of all.

I fell in love with baseball, and then I fell in love with the Dodgers. Not to say I haven’t been seen with a rally monkey draped around my shoulders or a Yankees hat and a pretzel in the Bronx or a Cubs hat and an old style in Chi town. I’ve been known to be a cheater. I get around.

Three years later we were to part. Ours was a spring to summer relationship, with no chance for a post season. An important one that made me ready for every relationship I’ve had since. As part of the breakup I dropped the bombshell, I hadn’t seen a game before him, I didn’t know a thing about baseball before we met.

He acted externally deceived, angry even, as if I'd lied to him, but I always got the sense he knew how deep my love for him ran that I’d immerse myself to those levels to share in his passion. But in me, being me, it became mine too.

One of the last arguments we had we were separating kitchen appliances. I currently have mustard and cat food in my refrigerator, and live as a bachelor never cooking, so I knew having pans and spatulas and blenders was of little importance as leaving on good terms. I said, “please have it all.” We continued to argue.

“All I want is baseball,” I said.

“Ok”

It was only fitting our first date and last argument would carry the same melodies, the same undertones, the same harmony. We were significant for one another. For in him I found first love.