David Justice.
I’ve never been good at romance. I tend to bumble the whole emotions part of the deal, which I suppose is an important aspect of romantic relationships. As I’ve gotten older and compiled a record of second-guessed, bumbling, romantic decisions, I’ve come to figure out specifically who is to blame for turning me into this monster. The 1995 Atlanta Braves.
I was a guest fan of baseball while I was growing up. I grew up with three brothers, all huge baseball fans. I watched games with them. I was fans of their favorite teams. I was the person they threw stuff at when I wouldn’t stop asking questions during games. A beloved guest. I can remember the first time I laid my eyes on the Atlanta Braves. It was the spring of 1994. I was nine. A young woman, coming into my own. I watched as these young men wearing pristine white, evidently slightly offensive uniforms took the field, ready to dirty themselves with the dirt of struggle and hopefully the tears of victory. It was then I learned an important life lesson: the heart wants what the heart wants.
Greg Maddux, Tom Glavine, John Smoltz, Steve Avery, Chipper Jones and David Justice. I was an 11-year-old girl in love with six twenty-something/thrirty-something men. Lets be clear about something. I was no dummy. I knew it could never happen. I knew it made no sense. To have all six men was impossible. I had to pick one, write a letter and profess my love. It was the only reasonable thing to do.
I had it narrowed down to two: Glavine and Justice. I couldn’t pick. One was logical, good looking, a majestic pitcher. The other, mysterious, sweet faced, a beast of the right field. My eleven year old head and heart spun with confusion. I had to make a choice and no matter what, someone’s heart would be broken. I had to let one of them down. What if I made the wrong choice? One had my heart, the other made more sense. The constant dilemma of the soul. Where to turn for direction: reason or fate?
It was September of 1995 when the letter went into the mailbox. As the 8x4 envelope dropped, my throat dropped with it. I had chosen to give my heart to Tom Glavine. I walked back to my dad’s car, plopped myself into the passenger seat and cried all the way home. He had no idea what had just happened. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I felt awful. I was unsure. Had I made the right choice? Or did I think foolishly? Was I too practical? Was there any going back?
In October 1995, David Justice struggled through the postseason, becoming outwardly irritable to the media. I, of course, blamed myself. On the morning of game six of the World Series, which saw the Braves facing the Cleveland Indians, a story broke that Justice had said some nasty comments regarding the fans. But really, clearly, obviously, the comments were for me— because of my betrayal. That night, in the sixth inning of game six, I watched with my brothers and my father as David Justice hit a home run, the only run of game six, to win the World Series for the Braves. In that same game, Tom Glavine, my betrothed, pitched eight innings only giving up one hit and was named MVP of the World Series.
I chose Mr. Perfect. The MVP of the series. But the flawed man who won it all for the Braves… he walked alone that night. The one that got away. Game six of the 1995 World Series was an important day for me. That was the day my heart grew a shadow. It was the day I learned that even though the heart wants what it wants, it sometimes is confused about exactly what it wants or even needs.
That is why I am bad at romance.
Also, my general awkwardness and slight mistrust of men is probably why, too. But that 1995 Braves thing is most of it.
