Lessons from Baseball

Last time I returned an Amazon package at Staples, the drop-off location was near the print center. However, when I walked into the Lynchburg Staples on Saturday, bright blue floor stickers marked with the familiar Amazon arrow directed me straight back, to the left, around the registers, and up to the customer service desk, which is right next to the entrance—two feet from where I started. With a laugh, I leaned against the counter and waited for an employee. 

A second Amazon returnee entered the big box store, but he found his way to the counter on his own, bypassing the arrows that would have taken him the long way. We waited for help together. 

“You a Red Sox fan?” He asked, nodding toward my hat, a classic navy blue baseball cap with the Boston logo stitched on the front. 

“By marriage,” I said. “My husband is from New England. Big Sox fan.” 

He nodded. “My dad was a Boston fan. Got to take him to Fenway about two years before he passed.”

We chatted about Fenway Park and the MLB until a store associate lumbered over to the counter to help us.

I have never been a big sports fan, even when I played sports. When I was in high school, I played competitive basketball and had dreams of going on to play in college, but I rarely watched the sport. My dad and brother were never seriously into sports, so games weren’t on in the house, and we only watched the Super Bowl for the ads.

I went to a handful of sporting events in college, mostly to spend time with my friends. When I visited Liberty in the spring of 2015, I went to a baseball game and sat on the hillside of Worthington Field, watching the sunset and pretending to understand what was going on. 

This is why I say my first baseball game was in the summer of 2022 or 2023. Every year, my church gets group tickets to a Lynchburg Hillcats game, and my husband and I decided to go one year. I didn’t realize my husband was a baseball fan at that point—he’d always said he liked the Red Sox, but I’d never watched a game or talked with him about the sport. I assumed he liked the Red Sox in the same way I liked the South Carolina Gamecocks—as a bandwagoner. Little did I know, that game was a turning point in our relationship. I saw a whole new side of my husband that I’d never seen before. 

Throughout the game, he explained to me what was going on. I didn’t even know the difference between a strike, a ball, and a foul, so we started with that. He explained the different types of pitches as well as the various positions on the field. I learned all about designated hitters and the seventh inning stretch.

The following year, we went to more minor league games and shared an MLB TV subscription with my sister-in-law so we could watch Red Sox games. We’d put games on in the evening while I knitted and my husband worked on puzzles. I got to know the players, their strengths and weaknesses. I learned to hate the Yankees and cheer for any team that played against them. 

Last summer, we got tickets for a Sox game on my husband’s birthday. While it wasn’t the sole purpose of our trip to New England, it was one of the highlights. We took Amtrak from Lynchburg to Boston—an 11-hour journey—and spent three days in Beantown. On my husband’s 27th birthday, we cheered the Red Sox on to a win against the San Diego Padres. It’s one of my favorite memories with him to date. 

I’ll tell you a secret—the sport itself isn’t what I like about baseball. 

I like that it’s something my husband and I can enjoy together. I like that it’s something that brings people—like strangers at Staples—together. I like that it’s slow. Even with the pitch clock, games take over three hours. In a world that is fast-paced and bent on division, it’s refreshing to have something that unifies and meanders. Baseball isn’t afraid to take its time. It requires patience and stamina—MLB teams play 162 games each year, and the season takes up most of the year—March through October. 

See you at the ballpark!