I love baseball.

It wasn't always thus. When I was a kid, I really, really hated the game. Actually, I hated most games. When dragged to college basketball, I would sit in the coach's office and read (my dad knew the coach...). I used to hide a paperback and a walkman in my band hat and march pre-game that way so that I would have something to do during the game. Besides the obvious balance issues, it was a great way to not have to pay attention. Same for College football. I did dig the Steeler games, but it was the 70s and this *was* Pittsburgh. Not watching the Steelers would have resulted in my Pennsylvania citizenship being revoked. I also liked tennis, but that was more about liking Bjorn Borg than the actual sport.

But baseball...man, I hated baseball.

I used to say that it was because I was raised on a softball field. My dad was a shortstop, and a pretty good one. He played with a couple of "tournament" teams and played league ball until I was 16. Some years, he played in one league on Tuesdays and Thursdays, another on Mondays and Wednesdays and yet a third on the weekends. I knew the rules better than the umpires. I could keep score by age 8. I was all over the softball. Now, in a competive softball league, it isn't unusual for players to hit over .500. Games routinely are won or lost by scores of 16-14. 12-7. 9-6. It's a game that is very offense-heavy. Compared to this, baseball seemed unbelievably boring.

In baseball, I used to say, nothing happens. If you get a hit once out of 3 times, that's really, really good. Hall of Fame good. In a 9-inning game, likely you will have 40 people come to the plate. Maybe, maybe--if you have a good team--maybe 9 of them will get a hit. And of those 9 people who get a hit, maybe 1 or 2 will actually score a run. This isn't a game that is about the offense. This isn't softball. This is boring.

I felt that way until I was 29. And then one fateful night, I fell in love.

It was late 1995, October to be exact. I was sitting at my computer in our 2-bedroom apartment in the city. John was in the living room watching TV. Watching playoff baseball, it would turn out. He yelled for me to come join him. I whined. "I don't like baseball..." "Nah...you gotta come see these guys play."

You gotta come see these guys play. Little did I know what impact that one sentence would have in my life.

I went and watched them play. And the next day, I started reading the sports section--the sports section!--of the newspaper. And I watched them play another game. And another. They actually won that series, the American League Divisional Series, against the Yankees. They lost in the American League Championship Series that year, maybe to Cleveland. Didn't matter. I was in love. With the Seattle Mariners.

Now, I get asked all the time, why them? Why the Seattle Mariners? "Are you from Seattle?" I am asked. Nope, I say. Then why?

The answer is simple. That day, that team played with such shameless joy. They touched my heart. And they continue to play that way. They love the fans, and are respectful of the game. They seem to realize that they have been given a gift, and treat it as the precious thing that it is. They sign autographs, in Mike Cameron's case till his hands hurt. They always run off the field. They run out routine ground balls. They make goofy commercials. They support each other. They refuse to lose. They play 9 hard innings, every night. They play 3 hard outs, every inning. They don't give up. Not ever.

Last night, they came from behind, scoring 4 runs in the bottom of the 9th to take the first series of the season from the White Sox. When Bret Boone hit a little single into the gap, batting in the winning run, the team came running from the dugout, onto the field. They jumped up and down, they hugged Boone, they hugged each other, heck...it's not out of the question that they hugged a White Sock or two. It would have seemed to a casual observer that Something Really Important had just happened. Would have seemed like maybe they just made the playoffs, or won a Playoff game or won the World Series. But no, what they won was the third game of a 162-game season. They won a season series, yes, but the first one of the season. Over the 6 months of the season, this game is meaningless. And yet, they poured onto the field, shouting and jumping and hugging.

Imagine a movie, one of those body-swapping ones, where a bunch of 8-year-olds get to play big-league baseball. Imagine that they have all the skills of major leagers, but that they are 8 years old inside. How much joy would they play with, in this movie?

That's how my Mariners play. Every day. You should watch them sometime. But I warn you--it may change your life.