We've written about Baseball Withdrawal here before, a grim topic to be sure. The first week of March, however, represents the tantalizing near-end of the anticipation, the sun's teasing peak from behind the cloud, that here-comes-the-waiter-and-I-think-that's-my-Reuben-sandwich-he's-carrying feeling. This is the post-adjustment, pre-resolution stage of Baseball Withdrawal Syndrome. I freakin' love this part.
In addition to the more obvious signs (the turning calender, the fantasy drafts, the Spring Training games) of this stage, there are a couple that have become perennial for me:
The most significant, however, seems to be the introspection. That is, the self-awareness that accompanies the sheer nerdiness of the early March experience. How did I get here? This year's bout of introspection hit while I was at a business lunch last week and some colleagues were discussing the books that they had been reading of late and I had to think fast and lie through my teeth, because the real answer to the question "what are you reading now?" would have been something like "well I've just polished off Shandler's Baseball Forecaster, I've been rereading Brunt's Diamond Dreams, Prospectus ships soon too, and I've been hitting refresh every five minutes on Rotoworld's player news page".
The unfailing annual reduction of this introspection are the questions: how did this happen? When did it all start? How did I become such a baseball nerd? I vividly remember that as an eight-year-old I would lay out all of my baseball cards on my bed and sort them by home runs, most to least, first for the most recent season and then for career. I remember the first time that I learned that some baseball statistics were context-dependent: at the age of seven or eight, I explained to my father how Vince Coleman was the best base-stealer because he stole over 100 bases every year, and he replied that Coleman must be a good hitter to have had enough opportunities to steal that many. I remember that at age twelve my parents bought me Strat-o-Matic, and when I explained to my friend who lived next-door (and with whom I had played countless hours of a baseball trivia board game that he had) that I got a new board game called Strat-o-Matic that we should try, he said, "great, how hard are the questions?" The rest is history.
Two questions, Bauxites: what are your signs of the post-adjustment, pre-resolution stage of Baseball Withdrawal Syndrome that hits us every year in early March? Also, when did you first realize that you were a baseball nerd?
In addition to the more obvious signs (the turning calender, the fantasy drafts, the Spring Training games) of this stage, there are a couple that have become perennial for me:
- Watching Ken Burns' Baseball on DVD. It's the fastest 1,140 minutes you'll ever experience. I've developed a Pavlovian contentment response to the voice of narrator John Chancellor. Every March, I watch it, and I never tire of the stories. It's playing on my TV as I type this.
- Waiting for a baseball video game to be released. This year, I am waiting on a game that is being released tomorrow, whereupon I will take some flex-time in the afternoon to marvel at the modern technology and reluctantly acknowledge that my thumbs aren't as fast as they used to be. Over the weekend, I went to every store in the GFA (the Geater Fredericton Area; LOL) that could conceivably stock video games, just on the chance that some clerk either blatantly disrespected or willfully neglected the "do not sell before 3/4/08" stamp on his store's shipment. My fruitless efforts to prematurely game were restrained compared to some.
The most significant, however, seems to be the introspection. That is, the self-awareness that accompanies the sheer nerdiness of the early March experience. How did I get here? This year's bout of introspection hit while I was at a business lunch last week and some colleagues were discussing the books that they had been reading of late and I had to think fast and lie through my teeth, because the real answer to the question "what are you reading now?" would have been something like "well I've just polished off Shandler's Baseball Forecaster, I've been rereading Brunt's Diamond Dreams, Prospectus ships soon too, and I've been hitting refresh every five minutes on Rotoworld's player news page".
The unfailing annual reduction of this introspection are the questions: how did this happen? When did it all start? How did I become such a baseball nerd? I vividly remember that as an eight-year-old I would lay out all of my baseball cards on my bed and sort them by home runs, most to least, first for the most recent season and then for career. I remember the first time that I learned that some baseball statistics were context-dependent: at the age of seven or eight, I explained to my father how Vince Coleman was the best base-stealer because he stole over 100 bases every year, and he replied that Coleman must be a good hitter to have had enough opportunities to steal that many. I remember that at age twelve my parents bought me Strat-o-Matic, and when I explained to my friend who lived next-door (and with whom I had played countless hours of a baseball trivia board game that he had) that I got a new board game called Strat-o-Matic that we should try, he said, "great, how hard are the questions?" The rest is history.
Two questions, Bauxites: what are your signs of the post-adjustment, pre-resolution stage of Baseball Withdrawal Syndrome that hits us every year in early March? Also, when did you first realize that you were a baseball nerd?
