balk

We took a cab to the stadium. Deciding that between the four of us, it was cheaper than the metro, and just easy enough to make it worthwhile. After scoping the underbelly of RFK for an ATM, food, and beers we finally settled into our seats. 500 section. Right above home plate. At least half of the fans around us had their own personal stat books. The man in front of us yelled at the umpire throughout most of the game and Tim made friends by asking him questions about Giants players, obscure rules he didn’t understand, and who’d make it to the World Series.

Earlier, I’d masking taped an asterisk onto Tim’s black t-shirt. And each time Barry Bonds touched the field he would stand up, point to his chest, and scream obscenities down to the field. He wasn’t alone. Cameras flashed everywhere, capturing Bonds at his worst. They looked like bright white fly balls all popped into the air at once.

I don’t know if there’s such a thing as perfect baseball weather - but if there is - last Saturday’s game must have come close. We took turns running down the aisle between innings to get more beer and by the bottom of the fifth, the conversation had turned away from the game and onto other topics.

“This would make a good fourth date,” Tim announced.

“Why? Cause we’re actually winning?” I asked.

“No… Well yes,” he laughed. “But more because it’s something different to do.”

My friend Tim could easily be deemed a serial dater. In the year that I’ve known him, I’ve been witness to a countless stream of women that he’s taken out, wined and dined, hooked up with, fallen for, introduced us - his friends - to, and then dumped after two weeks.

“Well what do you usually do?”

“I have a formula.”

“If only all things were so simple.” I rolled my eyes.

“Not exactly.”

“Ok. Explain.”

“The first date’s easy. Dinner and drinks. A chance to chat – to get to know one another. Somewhere quiet but nice. Order a bottle of wine. That sort of thing.”

“And then?”

“For a second date we’ll do that again – but go somewhere that’s a little louder, with a little more scene.” He’d said scene like it was a secret. Like he was offering me a dating steroid – something to make me better and faster. Raise my batting average.

“So what’s third base?”

Chuckles all around.

“If… IF… they make it that far. I invite them over to my place and cook them dinner.”

“Ooo. And you’re smart to wait until the third date. Cooking a girl dinner on the first date is just cheap.”

“Agreed,” he said, nodding.

“So what do you make for desert?”

“More like… what do they make me?”

Ha.

We signaled to one of the vendors to bring up more beer.

“If they make it to two weeks, I invite them on a trip.”

“A trip?”

“You know… back home to meet the family, a night in Richmond, a wedding out of town. You know…”

Truth was I didn’t. At least – I didn’t understand the rush of it all. Two weeks seemed awfully fast for the whole this-is-my-crazy-messed-up-family-don’t-you-think-they’re-just-great weekend getaway.

I started thinking about my own dating history. My relationship Hall of Fame. Particularly the one’s I’d tape an asterisk beside. Evidence of why it might have looked like it was going over the fence – but in the end – there were just a lot of foul balls.

The one with green eyes* (He liked watching other girls more than me)
The one who wrote me songs* (A little too possessive)
The one who always refilled my drink* (Do we have to be drunk ALL the time?)
The one who opened doors, listened when I talked, and liked the things I liked* (I just couldn’t picture myself making out with him)
The one I knew was wrong for me, but I went there anyway* (There’s no explaining this)
This one*
and another one*
and one more*

(Sometimes there are too many reasons to count)

Since the Nationals beat the Giants, I’ve been thinking about Tim’s relationships. There have been few women who made it to third. But he still seemed to have it figured out. A seemingly infallible formula. If by doing the right things, saying the right things, landing on first and trying to steal second, all the while testing our partners in hopes that they’ll move from the minors up to major league, we might actually find a person who’s great. And great for us. I wonder if it would eventually work, or if he’d played the game for so long with these tricks that he wouldn’t be able to see something great because he’s too focused on striking people out – and not enough on effort. Somehow I don’t think anything that scripted can work. It all seems too phony and forced. Manipulative maybe. Like you’re cheating and everyone else knows it. Even if they don’t stand up on their feet and call you out.

Why waste your pitching arm on all of that when eventually, there’s going to be one who hits it out of the park fair and square.