what's new with me, you ask?

(when it is obvious you watch too much baseball)

a man I work with has learned to stop loving the Detroit lions. I have learned how to stop loving, but not stop caring. but this is about baseball.

I have been a tigers fan since I was born. I think my abuelito anointed me with the old English d at my baptism. which explains why I feel closer, at times, to jim Leyland than to god. or at least understand him (as opposed to Him).

but it hasn't been easy. yes, there was the glory of 1984, but I was so young/it was so early on in the loving them, it almost feels too long ago to be real. I see the pictures and can't imagine alan trammel playing with lou Whitaker, can't remember the specific way lance parrish crouched, kirk Gibson in anything but an abrasive yellow suit calling ball games those few years, and so on. and since then, what's it been? mostly disappointments. the one return to the playoffs (that I remember, there may have been more) and the corollary success of tigers who'd moved on (gibby). oh, and bobby Higginson.

then there's the faith, or "keeping the faith". there's the feeling that you have to love your team as close to unconditionally as possible, even when they overpay juan "my toe hurts" Gonzales, trade todd jones (back when he was can't-miss), and fire phil garner (aka jim Leyland version 1.0). but you have to forgive, or do the thing that approximates forgiveness: attempt to forget.

and then, after years upon years of defending your love of the tigers to friends, family, "they're coming around", "things are going to change, I can feel it", after the lies ("juan encarnacrion is going to be the next Griffey jr.") and the inability to follow through even on setting the record for most losses in a season, there's what seems like an epiphanic reward: a trip to the world fucking series.

you're proud. you have earned it. you watched every game, afternoon and night, for years. I mean YEARS. before carlos guillen signed, before pudge signed, before verlander was even a draft pick. and now, look, there's your Brandon inge (high knee socks and all) over at third! you knew he could do it! he could be AN EVERYDAY PLAYER! you feel vindicated, right? like you showed them all wrong.

until they degenerate into self-destructive behavior: being impatient at the plate. not setting one's feet before throwing to first. even something which some would call cheating: pine tar on the hand. and they lose. and you lose.

the signs were all there, right? the cheating (but would you have called it cheating if you'd ended up with a [world series] ring?), the lying, the disappointments, the you-always-being-the-one-to-forgive-and-forget, the you always compromising (baseball over hockey, baseball over everything), you always trying harder to make it better (as though your practice swings in the jolly road batting cages would really help) but being so acutely aware of all signs pointed to an impending implosion:

inge's strikeouts rise, the pitchers have no control, bodies break down, and on and on. you feel it. 2007 was going to be great, right? a few good months and you had it in the bag.

but no. but no. but no.

how many years are you going to let the roof cave in before you move? how many bad trades, lies, suspected incidences of cheating (where there's a smudge, there's fire) is it going to take? how many times do they drag you through the fire before you stop?

that's what it's like now. I can't imagine going back now, because I'm always waiting for the sky to fall. there's always that great month (june! no one can beat us!) and then the slowly telegraphed collapse: you say you're going to the YMCA, but you come home smelling like beer. you say the hot bartender is just a friend, yet you hide her name in your phone by pretending she is your sister. you lie about more and more, and the truth percentage is lower than Brandon inge's worst ever batting average. but at least there's someone there to call a hit, right?

and I realize you don't love me even close to the way I deserve, or have earned. you don't love me the way I love the tigers. you don't even love the tigers, you just watch or say you want to watch when you want to go out to the bar (by yourself). you don't know what it means to protect the plate. you'd rather have the glory of a homerun than the grit of the drag bunt.

there's at least hope with the tigers. there's no hope left here. and that's sad. that's awful. I carried that hope around for both of us, like your bat boy. I did everything you asked. I took so many for the team my thighs have permanent bruises and I swear they look like the back of your jersey.

but the tigers didn't say they loved me. you did. the tigers didn't say "I really do love you", "please forgive me", "I will never do that to you again". they put their helmets on and went back to work. and the tigers weren't there for our daughter's birth (can you imagine how nervous todd jones would be?) and they didn't run and hide and dodge…they stayed. in Detroit. where it's hard.

because they want to win, they believe they can win.

but I can't play with you anymore. at least the tigers aren't lying anymore. they're not leading Brandon inge on, they're not telling me Miguel Cabrera is "just a friend who wants to see what third base would be like…you know, I'm not shopping for a new third baseman".

find someone else to carry your torch, your bat bag, your jock strap. I'm done. cancel my contract, lose my agent's phone number, I am cleaning out my locker and I won't ever see you in Lakeland again.