I’ve been trying to figure out what kept me with baseball—why I watched ESPN’s “Baseball Tonight,” why I loved game-of-the-night broadcasts with Jon Miller and Joe Morgan for what felt like every night of summer in Ohio. But every potential answer to the question just makes me wonder even more: Why the hell do I love even the boring things about a sport that’s already so tedious?
My focus was on winning a World Series for the New York Mets, one hundred percent. But even as a big-league sapling, now three full seasons into my career, I still scoured the box scores each day during the season to see how the Red Sox were doing. On some level, I was still that seven-year-old kid from the summer of 1967, pulling for Carl Yastrzemski and the Boston Red Sox.