say, the thing with justifiable homicide is that even if it’s justifiable, it’s still homicide. Mind you, when she said that she was screaming at my Grandpa Adam when he threatened to take a hit out on the fan who attempted to catch a foul ball and wound up deflecting it out of Alou’s mitt, thereby “ruining” the Cubs’s 2003 attempt to win the National League Championship. In our house, you don’t even say the name Steve Bartman as a joke. It’s still too soon.
“Did Rodriguez homer?” Si asks. I don’t even growl at the conversation anymore. I don’t think they’d hear me if I did.
Jed gives Si a play-by-play of the game, the litany of missed opportunities and bad plays, as I try to tune them out.
Try. As in, unsuccessfully.
Jed shakes his head, and Si sighs. “They’re playing a doubleheader,” Jed adds, refocusing the conversation on “happier” topics, “so if we can get Abby moved in quickly, we can probably find a sports bar where we can catch the second game against the Red Sox.”
And because it’s been three days of baseball talk, three days during which I have asked—no, begged—them to not subject me to it, I finally lose it.
I agreed to let them stop to watch two live games during the three-day drive from Chicago to Merritt. Two. It was supposed to be in exchange for three days of no baseball talk. No baseball talk and no games on the radio. That lasted until we hit the Skyway into Indiana and then they just needed to check the score. And then they just needed to hear the next play, and then check . . .
Three days.
I didn’t take the Cubs paraphernalia off our car as I’d threatened to do before we left: the fourteen different bumper stickers, the fake baseball that appears to have been “smashed” into the rear window, and the giant Cubs decal that covers most of the hood. Not to mention the Cubs flags waving out of each window—yes, all four—in rain or shine, sleet or snow.
The truth is, I don’t really blame my brothers. They were raised this way.
I blame my parents.
I blame my grandparents and their parents before them. My great-grandparents, who I bet got off the boat at Ellis Island, took the train to Chicago, and stood in line for season tickets for the Cubs.
I am the lone sane person in my family, going back generations.
“Is there any chance we can get me moved in without talking about baseball?” I spit out.
I keep telling myself that it was generous of my brothers to drive me out here. Generous, and it shows they care. And that they love me. And—
“Of course.” Jed smiles, attempting to placate me.
“Just tell me what time the second game starts?” Si calls to the front, pulling off his sweatshirt.
“I think we have half an hour or so.”
“Got it. We can probably do this fast,” Si says. That’s when the little mini tornado of rage inside me turns epic. I swing open the car door, ready to grab my stuff and dump it on the lawn, to move it up to my room alone, piece by piece.
Which is when he shows up. The tall guy in the backward cap, blond curls peeking out from under the rim, thick brown plastic glasses awkwardly perched on his nose. From the corner of my eye, I see him glance over our decked-out minivan, license plate CUB5 FAN, and he smiles and says: “Great play by Martinez in the bottom of the fourth.”
And I can’t help myself.
In my defense, it’s hard for me to deal with my family’s Cubs/baseball obsession at the best of times. But right now? After three days of nonstop talk of baseball statistics, baseball recaps, classic baseball plays, baseball jokes, and baseball trivia? After three days of my brothers’ half-assed explanations why “This is going to be the Cubbies’s year!”? This is not the best of times.
“Eff off,” I shout.
Hello, first impression.
By the time my brothers leave me in my dorm room with five minutes to spare before the second game, my head is ready to explode. There was a time that I wasn’t sure that I could do eight weeks away from home, but after this trip, I’m not sure I’ll be able to go back. I love my family, but there’s only so long you can feel like the foundling child before you crack.
And apparently, this car trip was my breaking point.