This month’s MANstruation is going to be a little different. Usually when I MANstruate, I sit on my couch with a box of tissues and a gallon of neopolitan ice cream, spending some quality time with my reader, and by quality time I mean I do all the talking. Instead of the normal bitching and complaining and whining and wasting breath about things that will never change, I will be exploring my, unique is a good word, relationship with baseball. Some say it is unhealthy, but I say it is true love; what do they know anyways? They don’t know how she looks at me or how she talks to me or how deeply I understand her. They don’t know how smooth leather against my hand makes me feel. They don’t know about the altered mental state (no, I’m not talking about Ron Washington or Josh Hamilton and their cocaine habits) one enters once the pants are zipped up, the jersey is buttoned and the cleats are laced up, it’s like getting ready for a date; a really, super smokin’ hot one, who does the dishes AND cooks. I know, perfection, right? That’s what baseball is to me.

On October 10, 2009, I wrote about my conflicted feelings towards the game of baseball (And I Call Myself a Baseball Fan…). I love it one day and hate it the next; it is a very cliché relationship. In fairness to the article defining my on-again-off-again intimacy with the sport, it was written only a couple of weeks after the Giants broke my heart, failing to make the playoffs. I was speaking with a clouded mind, a heavy heart; disappointed, angry even, that my relationship had come to an end prematurely. She told me it was her, it was her fault, her problem, but I still think it was my fault. At least hope spring eternal.

Well, today I love her. No, I more than love her. If baseball had a pulse, I’d divorce my wife and marry it yesterday; the alimony and unborn-child support checks couldn’t even dissuade me, but let’s refrain from telling her I said that. Baseball is the love of my life; don’t tell me wife I said that either. I could dance with it into the wee hours of the morning, and I DO NOT dance, I love having picnics at the park (AT&T); those nice folks even supply the food! Cha-Cha Bowls, crab sandwiches and garlic fries, oh my! Baseball is the only gal who doesn’t mind the smell of garlic exiting the pores, she even encourages playing the field; yep, me and baseball are a match made in heaven.

No matter what anyone says this is absolutely, without a doubt, one hundred percent, the greatest, most stunningly beautiful time of year: spring training. Yes, there is that March Madness thing, which happens to lay claim to the best three weeks in sports every year (go Gaels), but immediately following the conclusion of the NCAA Tournament is baseball’s opening day. This is the single greatest day of the year, bar none. You can have your birthday’s and your Christmas’, Thanksgiving’s, Independence Day’s, New Year’s or for the tree-hugging hippie crowd, both Arbor and Earth Day, plus any other commercially owned and regulated holiday I am forgetting; I’ll take my Opening Day for baseball thank you.

Madame Baseball is a relatively cheap date compared to her competitors. Tickets can be had for as little as $5 to $10, or like on Wednesday’s the last few years in Oakland, $1. There is not a lone man on earth who dislikes a cheap date. Not only is she cheap, but she visits more regularly than her sisters, staying home eighty-one times over the course of seven months, and as rare as it may be, sometimes she even does it twice in a day. You find me a guy who doesn’t like to partake in a double-dip with his woman every now and then and I’ll show you someone who lives by the credo: ignorance is bliss.

When it comes to music preference, she is old school, just the way I like ‘em. John Fogerty, who some of you may know as the Creedence Clearwater Revival guitarist and song writer, plays on her eight track (old school, remember?). Fogerty’s Centerfield is to baseball as oxygen is to life. A few other standards you might find in her collection are Tony Bennett’s I Left my Heart in San Francisco, Sinatra’s New York, New York, the ’79 Pirates and their We Are Family theme, and of course, several renditions of Take Me Out to the Ball Game, including Harry Carey’s, but not any of these.

If there was any misconception, let’s clear it up right now. When I speak of ‘her’, I am talking about the game of baseball, not the teams, players, owners, or dimwit commissioner; I mean bats, balls, leather mitts, metal spikes, bleach-white bases, pristine infield dirt, pine tar, chalk lines, and maybe the rules of the game too. Yes, I am a quote-unquote diehard Giants fan, but contrary to my pessimistic emotions on that fateful day last October and our on-again-off-again relationship, baseball, in general, really is like a lover to me. See, we even fight like an ol’ married couple; a really old one. Baseball is going on its 110th consecutive season – that is one hell of a lot of anniversary presents! If the 80th anniversary gift is Oak, what the heck is 100?!? Good thing she’s cheap.

Opening day is like a date, and some years, a blind date. You probably have an idea in your head of what this mysterious woman looks like. Maybe you even know the color of her hair or her first name, maybe you are even vaguely familiar with who she is. Then she walks through the door looking nothing like you’d imagined, with a full set of teeth, and they’re straight too, bonus! This is the beginning to what you hope will be a long, loving relationship. The first few weeks are always the best, the happiest; like a whirlwind of adventure and intrigue. Baseball season is the same way: on opening day, every team is tied for first place; hopes are high with dreams of October baseball. No one truly knows what they have. The sport has a funny way of making even the best players look human, yes folks, that includes Albert Pujols. Like a date, the season can go one of two ways.

The first example sees the two lovers bonding and growing old together, like a playoff or World Series berth; the ultimate ending. On the flip side we have the bad first date. If you are like the Pirates and Royals, you were stood up by your blind date; she didn’t even bother to call and cancel, let alone show up. For the better part of this decade, my Giants have been the early flameout; a mediocre-to-good first date, maybe even a goodnight kiss, but soon after comes reality, at that moment she has an epiphany, something to the tune of, “I am way too good for him”. Hopefully this year, she will be attractive yet stay interested for the entire season, no one wants an ugly girlfriend; I’ll even take the ultimate tease that she was last year, falling short of the postseason in the final weeks. That’s like getting to third base with your girl and being waved home by the base coach only to find out the catcher is waiting for you with the ball.

Baseball is the only love affair I am allowed to have, and let me tell you, that is fine by me, in fact it was all five slots on my top-five ‘if I ever meet them, anything goes’ celebrity list. My wife graciously approves of my unhealthy attraction to this tantalizing beauty that is baseball. She will even grit her teeth and begrudgingly join the action, making for a heaven-sent three-way with my two lovers. Then again, my wife also tells me that if baseball were a woman, she would have filed for a restraining order against me many moons ago for the whole stalking thing; what a killjoy. I don’t think I’m a stalker, do you? Don’t answer that.

Opening day is a week from Saturday. I am making the final preparations for my date. I haven’t seen her in five months; I wonder if she’ll look different, though I doubt it. Grass-stained pants, her beautiful bonnets with white sweat rings, lip always full of chew, pockets full of spits (sunflower seeds) and her trusty flip-up sunglasses, yeah, she’s ready to dance. I wait at her doorstep and knock with anticipation. How will the date go? Will she love me or hate me? Will we be together long enough to dress up as Panda’s for Halloween together? No matter what happens, I will love her as if she is my own, even if she doesn’t love me back.