How 'bout a baseball game?

Dear Mark Teixeira,

Please sign with the Orioles. I know they’re probably not offering as much money as the Red Sox, but you have to understand that Peter Angelos isn’t a great owner. In his defense, we’ve been burned by big contracts for respected sluggers in the past (see Belle, Albert). So maybe our offer isn’t the richest. But when you’re making $150 million, does an extra couple million really make a huge difference? When you have the opportunity to live near your family and be the face of your hometown team, perhaps not.

Let me tell you about my experience with baseball. My earliest memories are linked to Henry, my divorced grandmother’s late “friend,” who would take me and my sister Kayla to games. Back then, in the early 90’s, the Orioles were mediocre and Henry had to bribe us with ice cream in upside down batting helmets to get us to agree to go. Nevertheless, he loved going, and he loved the idea of dragging us with him. “How ‘bout a baseball game?” he’d inevitably ask, every time he’d visit.

Awhile after Henry passed away, several things happened to make an O’s fan out of this ice cream-eating kid. One summer, my dad instituted a policy of mandatory exercise for us. At least 15 minutes of riding bikes everyday, and 10 of tossing around a baseball. Initially we viewed this as a chore – an obstacle to playing with action figures in the air conditioning. But gradually we began to enjoy it more, and started batting in the backyard, and playing games like hot box. We started attending more Orioles games as a family, always running late and missing the first inning and a half, always parking for free at one of my dad’s clients’ offices and walking the rest of the way to Camden Yards. My sister and I discovered the joy of listening to Fred Manfra and Jim Hunter calling the games on WTOP. And in 1996, a few weeks after watching the Orioles defeat the Tigers as my birthday party, I heard from Fred and Jim that they’d made the playoffs.

We went to lots of games over the next several years, including a Divisional Series game against the Mariners. Kayla and I paid $30 of our parents’ money for an autographed photo of B.J. Surhoff at her elementary school’s silent auction (slyly waiting until just before the auction ended to outbid our competition, a pair of stout brothers whose names I forget). When we couldn’t attend the games in person, we’d listen to them on the radio or watch them on TV (ready to play, on HTS). We would mock Michael Reghi (see You LATER!) and save newspaper clippings (New York, 0-3 to start the ’98 season). Baseball, specifically the Orioles, had become a huge part of my life.

Over time, the O’s kept losing and, like many fans, we stopped going to as many games. But even after eleven years of mediocrity-bordering-on-pathetic-terribleness, my love for the team has not dampened. I still hate Jeffrey Maier and idolize Cal Ripken Jr. Spring training always breeds eternal optimism, and each free agent signing or trade sparks a little excitement within me (except, I’ll admit, dealing Erik Bedard. I can remember discussing his potential with my friend Matt in high school math class following one of his first major league games. It makes me sad that he reached it, and then we let him go).

I am confident that many people feel the same way. That a consistently competitive team would awaken the latent Orioles fan in many us. And that Camden Yards is just a few wins away from being sold out. There’s something magical about this blind hope. It’s part of what makes being a sports fan so unique and enduring.

Does part of you feel this way too, Mr. Teixeira? Please come home. Young Marylanders, like we both once were, could use a new star to root for.

Sincerely,
Jason