When baseball and pregnancy hormones collide

I love being pregnant. The weirdest things get to you.

Baseball season started last week. This is a glorious time of year, and one that I usually start anticipating with excessive fervor starting approximately 30 seconds after the New England Patriots are out of championship running. This year I was reasonably distracted and haven't been as on the ball in terms of pre-season games, season openers, and how Baltimore, the Yankees, and the Twins are looking for the year. I have yet to see a full game. This is highly unusual. But not surprising given the circumstances. Still, I was somewhat unprepared for how my pregnancy hormones would mix with baseball.

Let me back up a bit and explain. I LOVE BASEBALL. I have since I was a little kid and my mom and step-dad would take me to American Legion games in Billings, MT. And since my father took me to Minnesota Twins games at the Metrodome during Kirby Puckett's heyday (to this day, my favorite joke my dad ever told is, "Kirby's butt is so big he's taller when he sits down." But wow, could that man run like the wind). And since I moved to Boston and my husband filled in all the blanks and made a lifelong devoted Boston Red Sox fan out of me. Bless his heart, he endures ALL my questions about the rules and regulations of baseball. There's no turning back now. Field of Dreams and Bull Durham both made my top 10 movie list in short order. I look forward to watching baseball games on TV. But when that's not possible, I actually listen to, and understand, games on the radio, along with accompanying game analysis. Baseball makes me happy.

Perhaps this deep love of baseball was why, during my morning commute to work, I found myself crying when the John Fogerty's Centerfield started playing on the radio. At first when I heard the song, I cranked it up and smiled, thinking about how today was opening day at Fenway. Within seconds, as I tried to sing along, I found myself choking up. Choked up turned into open crying. Crying turned into outright sobbing. Why? I don't know. Was it these lines?

"Got a beat-up glove, a homemade bat, and brand-new pair of shoes;
You know I think it's time to give this game a ride.
Just to hit the ball and touch 'em all - a moment in the sun;
(pop) It's gone and you can tell that one goodbye!"

All I know is it took a solid verse of a Rod Stewart song (I hate Rod Stewart) to get it out of my system. I blame Weeble-related hormones.

A slightly different situation transpired when M and I finally had the opportunity to watch more than 15 seconds of a game, and were enjoying Sunday night's Red Sox vs. Texas Rangers game on ESPN. My enjoyment lasted about as long as it took for Joe Morgan to open his damn mouth and start annoying the hell out of me. Normally the kind of rage and utter hatred I was feeling toward Joe Morgan that night is reserved for f**king Tim McCarver. Yeah, you baseball fans know what I'm talking about. But it appears that Joe Morgan gets to be on that list, too. If he says the phrase "dead red" ONE MORE TIME while I am hostage to these hormones, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Goddamn that guy pisses me off. Thank god the Red Sox won that game or I may have really freaked out.

So the short story is it's something like day nine of the baseball season. There is WAY more baseball ahead, and way more hormones to course through my bloodstream. This doesn't really bode well for the next four months.