.11 "i hope [...] you feel allowed. i hope you stop feeling like you need permission at all."

i was told, somewhat jokingly, to write 3k words about baseball, which, if you’ve ever known me, is quite possibly the unlikeliest sentence i ever imagined myself writing.

and yet, here i am, crying over baseball, and so full to bursting with words bottlenecked inside of me. a pile of jumbled half-thoughts and mostly-feelings fighting to make their way out first.

as it turns out… i love baseball.

i’ve always loved going to a baseball game — all my friends know that. i love the thrill of a packed stadium. i love an overpriced beer and greasy stadium food. i love browsing the merch — the MERCH! my little shopaholic heart loves seeing all the silly and fun things a team decides to sell (and the unauthorized merch being sold outside the stadium with all the best one-liners from the non-media-trained/don’t-give-a-fuck athletes — never change, Big Dumper!!).

i love the buzz in the air. the way a crowd becomes one singular entity, experiencing joy, elation, hope, gloom, or depression alike. i love the feeling of belonging, which is all i have ever wanted, anywhere. in baseball, belonging is tangible. fans cheer and scream with each other, performing call-and-response or doing the wave. they high five or hug when things go right. they show solidarity with the team by waving their rally towels or wearing their silly little rally caps or shoes or whatever other random items they can balance on their heads. when a team wins a big game, the crowd filters out and the excitement is palpable. 

it’s the only time in my life where sensory overwhelm becomes fun and enjoyable, rather than making me want to run away and go breathe into a bag in a dark, quiet room.

anything can happen. and it will. and it does. in baseball — as in no other sport — the impossible is becomes possible, every single game. baseball is a game of hope. baseball fans have to be endlessly optimistic because the tides can turn at any moment.

i’ve been in love with a seattle mariners fan for 13 years, which means that, for over a decade, i’ve experienced what it is to see someone be endlessly hopeful. when we moved to seattle three years ago, i knew that meant we’d be going to games regularly, and that i’d be hearing more about a sport that i only marginally cared about from someone who is extremely passionate about it. baseball is its own language, one that relies heavily on numbers, and to me that has always meant that it was not for me, because numbers become fuzzy when i look at them too long or think about too hard. they jumble up in my mind and make no sense at all. i love the complexities of language and words, but when people speak in numbers, it makes me feel alien, other. 

that is not the point of baseball, to me. so for a long time, my caring about the sport extended only to the boundaries of the stadium, and not one inch beyond.

but this year, after two years of going to mariners games and enjoying myself in an emotionally detached way, the tides turned. we watched them win, and win again. i started learning not just the names to chant, but when to expect to chant for them because suddenly i started understanding the positions and the rules of the game. i learned who my favorites were — and not just because they said funny things in interviews or had amazing hair or nice butts or excellent merch (though that helps, always).

i started to care.

and then they made it to the postseason, and the normally sleepy city of seattle was suddenly buzzing. and i started taking my emergency anxiety meds, and even more antacids than usual. but it felt immensely worth it, to be a part of it. to feel those extreme highs and lows, and come back the next day ready to do it all over again.

after one particularly difficult loss, we drove home listening to the kind of sad-but-beautiful songs that make you love everything even as you’re crying. “Long Long Time” by Linda Ronstadt came on, and i held my partner’s hand as we sang along, the lights of the nighttime city shimmering around us in a fast-motion blur. seattle has a reputation for being grey and gloomy, but if you’ve never seen the city at night, you know that it sparkles — all those lights reflecting off the water. it’s beautiful even when it breaks your heart.

at the same time the postseason was happening, i started reading The Prospects, by KT Hoffman. it was a silly little pickup, offered by a friend and accepted in a moment of, “hey, i like baseball! i like gay stories! this looks cute!”

as the mariners dove into the second half of an extremely tense playoff series, i read:

i did not expect that book to devastate me the way that it did. the story of a sweet, young, trans baseball prospect making it out of the minors and into the majors — and falling in love, and learning to let himself want, and believe that he deserves to want and not just hope — hit home in ways i wasn’t ready for. 

when his maybe-new-boyfriend-and-forever-crush asks to hold his hand so he can come out to his family, this line pulled on my heartstrings in a way i wasn’t ready for:

i’m crying again just rereading that. and touched — in a way that i can’t explain, not without an entirely separate essay — about the joy that Gene finds in his own queerness, in the trans body he over and over again says he loves despite the way the world thinks he shouldn’t. what a revelation, to read a book about a trans character who loves himself, even if he hasn’t quite figured out how to let others do so, too.

he belongs, not to others, but to himself. and that is extraordinary.

the mariners didn’t make it to the world series, but they made it as far as they’ve ever gotten. we not only witnessed history, but got to be a part of it, living in the city, going to games. we spent more than i care to admit on postseason tickets, because there is nothing like the thrill of being there, in person, clutching the railing until your knuckles are white, screaming your throat raw, jumping up from your seat to cheer with a crowd. for an entire season, and a bit beyond, i felt what it was like to belong. i learned to let myself want that belonging, to believe i was part of it and deserved it. 

what a gift, to experience that.

stay soft, stay wanting,

<3,

n.

p.s.

• this poem, by lauren mantis

• q&a post — safe space to ask questions as a queer ally

• this moment 😭