The word Yankees is never uttered in his presence unless to recite one of his e-mail addresses, which begins with "damnyankees"...

Connie Schultz is brilliant, in case anyone was wondering. Her husband is Sherrod Brown, by the way, a Democratic congressman in the House for Ohio. She's also muchly left of center, but most of her articles don't deal with politics, they deal with life. She is, in case I haven't mentioned it yet, brilliant. In fact, I actually got to meet her once a few months ago at a press conference. Granted, she had no idea I was an attorney and probably assumed that I was a reporter as well. It was the highlight of the month for me. Every Monday and Thursday, I look forward to the Plain Dealer. And unlike the other days, I don't read the comics first. I turn to her insightful articles. I was only going to get the Sunday paper, but decided that I had to order the daily as well because, well Monday and Thursday aren't Sunday. (Ok, I needed a cheat sheet to know that.) But seriously, for those not in Cleveland, I highly recommend that every Monday and Thursday, you log onto Cleveland.com and check her out. And again, in case I haven't mentioned it before, she's brilliant!! Today's made me laugh aloud, so I must share. And for the record, I too have a plastic cup collection.

Baseball is still his field of dreams
Monday, August 02, 2004

When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I played like a child.
When I became an adult, I put away my childish ways.

Then I met the man I would marry.

One day early in our relationship, I opened a cupboard door in his kitchen and discovered enough plastic Cleveland Indians cups to meet the beverage needs of the entire population of Toledo. And he doesn't even drink beer.

"What are these?" I asked.

Reverently, he described them, one tower at a time. There are the 1994 Inaugural Season cups. The Playoffs cups. The World Series cups. The discarded cups he scooped up from under the seats on his way to the exit. There are also Detroit Tigers cups, Pittsburgh Pirates cups, Chicago Cubs cups. No Yankees cups, though. Never the Yankees. In fact, the word Yankees is never uttered in his presence unless to recite one of his e-mail addresses, which begins with "damnyankees."

He took one look at the horror on my face and wrapped his arms around the mountain of cups he'd stacked on the counter. "These stay," he said.

I married him anyway.

I used to think I was quite the baseball fan. I knew the basic rules of the game and sometimes even followed along by keeping score. Then I went to my first game with my husband.

"Stadiums always face the same way," he explained between innings at our first game. "They call left-handers 'southpaws' because the left hand of the pitcher always faces the South."

OK. I didn't know that. He's left-handed himself, so I figured he was just sharing a little part of himself. Sweet.

A few minutes later, he struck up a conversation about the foul pole. "The foul pole and the foul line really should be called the fair pole and the fair line because if the balls hits the pole or the line it's a fair ball."

He looked at my blank face.

"Think about it," he said.

I flagged the beer guy.

Oh, what I have learned about baseball. Take hits, for example. Did you know they aren't just hits? Let's say the ball lands between the infielder and the outfielder. That's a blooper, which I found out when I mistakenly referred to a Baltimore chop as a blooper. But it also can be called a dying quail. Or a Texas leaguer.

"Why Texas?" I asked.

"I don't know. It just is."

"But there must be a reason it's Texas. Did it happen to a guy in Texas?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter. It's baseball."

Doesn't matter? This is the same man who, upon finding out that the word "peruse" actually means to read thoroughly, now lobbies nearly everyone he knows to use it correctly. (For those of you who, like me, thought it meant to skim, think again. Please. At least before you run into my husband.)

But why is a hit called a Texas leaguer? Doesn't matter. It's baseball.

He also loves to play baseball. Every spring for about five weeks we go to the batting cages so that he can practice his swing for the office baseball game. I become the high school girlfriend he never had: I hold his car keys and cheer him on, and then afterward we go for ice cream.

One afternoon at the cages, a bunch of middle-school boys crowded around in awe as my 51-year-old husband whacked one ball after another at 60 miles per hour. "Dang," one of them said. "Does he play for the Indians?"

Oh, Lord.

Last week, we were in Boston. A lot was going on there. Big convention. Lots of celebrities and important people and media from around the world. All of that, though, was a big so-what after the once-in-a-lifetime invitation arrived.

At high noon on a hot, sunny day in Boston, my husband walked up to home plate in Fenway Park for the chance to hit three whole pitches. He adjusted his cap, dug his toe in the dirt, then looked at me with a smile bigger than a triple before smacking a line drive to center and then a Texas leaguer.

I still don't know why they're called that. But right then, I didn't care. I just cheered and cheered for my baseball-whacking boyfriend, grateful for the chance at this second childhood.

To reach this Plain Dealer columnist:
cschultz@plaind.com, 216-999-5087

© 2004 The Plain Dealer. Used with permission.