I love you.
I just got mad in the right way. When things are going rough, your first emotion is obviously being upset with yourself, then ashamed and then pissed. I tried to channel that madness out on the field and stop worrying about the stuff that happened behind me that I can’t control.
No, not really — I don’t really love you, because I can’t. I don’t know you, not really.
But good philosophy. Good quote. And good job.
There is something that I want to make plain. By “make plain,” I mean to state in writing what lately has either been subtext, inference or suggestion, but regardless of the description that something has not been adequately and literally spelled out. So, here goes.
Things have changed since 2009. I tried to make it last as long as I could, but in the years that have followed, baseball has gradually returned to the background of my life by being forced to make room for… life.
This isn’t to say that I’m back where I was between 2002 and 2009 or, for that matter, every year that I’ve been alive prior to 2002. Once you become a baseball fan, you are a fan for life. (I wish the commitment of marriage were as similarly automatic.) It’s just that the carefree so-called “honeymoon” period that happened from 2009 onward had started to diminish more and more, and even though it really helped that you guys won the World Series, after that it was back to dealing with my own life, which frankly is in shambles about ninety percent of the time. Maybe ninety-five. The rest of the time is spent trying to remember baseball — to recall that there is something larger in the world that puts into star-spangled perspective all the vagaries of reality.
Baseball 2.0 is the blog and living memoir of San Francisco writer Joe Ramelo. At 30-years old, he is an internet veteran, having been a cyberspace colonist since 1994.
Written in the format of unsent (“never-to-be-sent”) letters to San Francisco Giants starting pitcher Tim Lincecum, Baseball 2.0 discusses baseball, the world and life — though baseball could be considered to be all of the above. In particular, there is special emphasis on baseball and life through the author’s background as a gay Filipino.
All that introspection is time consuming, so there’s not a lot of opportunity to hope that Tim (variously and vaguely referred to as either “the Avatar” or “Linc,” not really because of movies or video games but due to the author’s personal superstition/belief about the power of names) actually writes back — which he likely wouldn’t, anyway.