I hate to make Pirates baseball all about me.
But let’s talk about me.
Let’s talk about me so you can talk about you and tell me if you are experiencing or have experienced something similar and that is this …
October baseball is killing me.
I am not handling it even remotely well. Amanda Bynes is handling things better than I am right now. I am a lunatic basketcase of craziness and nausea.
I am fortunate that because of our Bucs partial-season tickets, my family has our postseason tickets in hand all the way up to and including the [inhale] World Series [stress vomit].
I told you what it was like going to the Wildcard game. I almost died.
Yesterday, I almost died-er.
My sisters (all but one I’m looking at you Tina Fey get on a plane, bitch [throws signs]) came into town from Cincinnati [patooie!] and Richmond for a girls weekend full of Burghy awesomeness such as Kelly O’s, Strip District shopping, giant duck, Pens, and yes, the Bucs.
This was before the game started. Which is why I don’t look like death yet.
Again, like the Wildcard game, the ballpark was louder than anything I’ve ever heard. There are jet engines putting out less decibels than the rabid fans inside of PNC Park. My sisters were stunned with the noise volume and wished they had earplugs. I had my hearing aids turned the entire way down again, but could still very clearly make out the KELLLLLLLL-EEEEEEEEEEEE chant.
The KELLLLLL-EEEEEEEEEE chant was as brain-destroying as the Cueto one. With the ballpark filled with the waving sound, it felt like the ballpark was a huge ship full of pirates caught in a storm, chanting with the rise and fall of each ferocious wave. I mean that. That is how my brain processed it. KELLLLLLLL-EEEEEEEEEE. Blood-thirsty pirates shouting joyously in the face of danger. Daring doom to come closer.
When the Cardinals’ error happened at first base, I was one of the few who jumped out of their seat (sorry, twenty-something dude sitting next to me who had to deal with me all game. I shall call him Bob.) I yelled out a quick “YES!” and threw out a few Arsenio Hall pump/WOO!s then sat back down.
Then Byrd sends one down the middle and the ballpark and I erupt. Inside the swell of deafening roars and chaos, I stand up and begin to scream when suddenly a sea of blue blobs start overtaking my vision from behind me, moving forward and in, to a pinpoint. I could not see anything but the blue blobby shadows. My head was spinning so violently, I felt like someone had cranked that damned Rotor ride up to Mach ALL OF THEM.
I sat down with a thud as the cheering continued around me, and waited a good fifteen seconds before my vision cleared. I am not even joking … this is basically what I looked like:
Jean Claude made that movie only so that one day I would have the perfect GIF to illustrate exactly what I looked like when I almost passed out at a Pirates postseason game.
I had several similar spells during the Wildcard game, but nothing as intense as that. The remainder of the game, I did my best to stay in my chair lest I fold into Bob’s lap, but when I did spontaneously erupt and rise, the wave hit me and I had to sit right back down and guzzle a bottle of water. I couldn’t even stand up for the last out of the game. AND I TRIED.
After that final out, I felt just fine and was able to bounce down the three flights of stairs to the ballpark exit like an eager puppy about to go on a walk.
My sisters diagnosed me with one of several things:
1. Stress of 20 years of losing + extra stress of a close game + noise + me yelling + one beer + Twizzlers + standing up too fast = fainting.
2. Some sort of hereditary inner ear deformity, requiring surgery to correct, that causes the ear and brain to be unable to process noise correctly. There’s an official name for it and my sister Ta-Ta has it. Since I blame an “inner-ear thing” on my inability to parallel park, I could easily jump on this bandwagon of medical blame.
But really? The most likely cause of all of this?
3. I am a mental weakling with the emotional fortitude of a toddler and therefore October ball is killing me.
My body is a mess and there aren’t enough Tums in the world to fix what baseball is destroying, namely my stomach lining. My heart races and my palms sweat every time I put a picture of the Pirates in my brain. When Melancon allowed that home run in the 8th inning, I could feel my kidneys shutting down all, “WE ARE ON STRIKE. THESE ARE UNACCEPTABLE WORKING CONDITIONS.”
And it’s so dumb and first-worldy of me. There is a world of suffering out there and I am physically and emotionally falling apart over BASEBALL. That’s just pathetic; you don’t have to tell me.
I’m off today, sending my husband and son instead. This means I can do as I’ve done for countless games this year … watch in the comfort of my kitchen on my little wall-mounted TV where the whole thing feels much less threatening and terrifying. At the same time, I record the game to the DVR on the big living room TV so I can re-watch the non-scary parts.
Basically, for me, Pirates baseball is like watching a horror movie.
Let’s just hope this movie doesn’t end with me passed out in the stands at a World Series game with medical personnel hovering over me all, “CAN YOU HEAR US, MA’AM?! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YEAR IT IS?!”
I seriously need prescription meds, you guys. Or medical marijuana.
P.S. Dear Bob, I’m sorry I unthinkingly grabbed your arm in joy like that when I thought that Card was out at third base. Hope the nail marks heal. I’m not well.