Twelve long years. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve followed baseball seriously.

Even though I was born and raised in Indiana, baseball was my favorite sport for most of my youth. It was the sport at which my dad played and excelled. I didn’t own a basketball hoop yet, so it was the sport I played the most. Every year, my parents bought me more and more books about America’s Pastime. If it had to do with baseball, I soaked it up like a sponge.

Cooperstown was the first Hall of Fame my parents ever took me to visit. Just in case you were wondering how obsessed I was, I saved the bag from the bookstore that held my mementos from the day.

I was the annoying kid on the block that knew all the stats. Whether it was playing, watching, or studying, I was obsessed with the sport.

Then, something happened. Well, actually, a few things:

First, I realized that the Cubs would probably never be good.

Secondly, and more importantly, I outgrew it.

When I turned 13, I entered Junior High, and my school didn’t have a baseball team. In order to continue to pursue baseball, my parents would’ve had to pay a lot of money to get me onto one of those travel teams. Since I could play soccer and basketball for free, baseball ended up taking a backseat.

My parents bought me a basketball hoop, sent me to basketball and soccer camps, and the rest was history.

As I grew older, I started to becoming antagonistic towards baseball.

It’s boring.
It’s too slow.
It’s unfair when the Yankees and Red Sox can spend so much more than everyone.
It’s unfair that the Cubs will never be good.
Etc… (every cliche imaginable)

I lost track of everything that made me love the game. Until this past Saturday.

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