somehow, early on, i got it in my mind that the leading keywords to my blogs would be oakland a’s and bullpen or cupcakes that taste like huston street or baking with baseballs and green frosting. but no. two things top the list, and they have nothing to do with my initial intent or reasoning behind this blog, yet they dwarf all of the competition. dum da da dum…… the two top keywords (and similar variations) to the bullpen baker are:

a’s wives’ softball game
AND
bobby crosby’s girlfriend

hmmm. what does this mean? am i just a resource for hot blondes in little shorts? ’cause if so, i’d better get them some baked goods, pronto. or maybe they should start baking for me!

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Lately, I’ve gotten really sensitive to the other "fans" around me at games, especially those who feel they deserve or have some constitutional right to be acknowledged by the players, no matter what. It could be raining cats and dogs with massive tsunamis raging around the Bay, and these "fans" would still make a hissy fit that Barry Zito didn’t sign his rain poncho in 3 different colors of permanent pen. Do you know which ones I mean? They’re the ones who yell at the players, especially during warm-ups, loudly berating them with comments like:

"Fan": Hey [insert A's player of choice here]! [A's player], come ‘ere. Now.
A’s player tosses ball, focuses on his job, warms up.
"Fan"(jumping up and down): You need to sign this! Hey! Hello?
A’s player continues to do what he’s paid to do, warm up.
"Fan" (waving arms, pen, baseball card binder and large bag full of shirts, balls, etc.): You gotta sign these for my kids, [A's player]! My daughter just went to the bathroom, or she’d ask you herself (yeah, right.). I promise I won’t sell these on EBay.
A’s player picks up equipment and jogs toward the dugout.
"Fan": What’s wrong wit ya? You $uck!

I’m not sure if there’s anything I can do about it. And while I want my visor or t-shirt or b00bs signed, I’m not going to offend or heckle or jump a player to get it. Instead, I’ll continue to do what I do best: stand quietly in line, crossing my fingers while realizing I shouldn’t have downed that coliseum-sized diet coke, and smile shyly, all while I get trampled by small children and brawny men. And regarding the yelling "fans," it’s not like some short girl telling them to shut up will do anything. Except give me a black eye and a bruised ego.

I spent the past 4 days in Ohio, visiting the grandparents. I was nervous the whole time– not because I had to make small talk when asked personal, prying questions or let my eyes glaze over during a debate of the overuse of toile in a 2-bedroom home. No, the nerves were from not knowing how the A’s were doing without me (pitiful, it seems- must be the lack of green frosting and chocolate chips), plus I couldn’t check my fantasy baseball team regularly. However, I’m still in 2nd place out of 12, so I’m not doing too shabby. Most of my success, though, can be attributed to the fantasy baseball-fanatic boyfriend. He’s the Billy Beane of my team while I’m more Ken Macha minus the grey hair and glasses and clipboard. The one touch of baseball I got while away was staying at the Hilton in Cincinnati, just 4 blocks or so from the Great American Ballpark where the Reds were hosting the Indians. (Quick sidenote: my first baseball game was a Reds game, probably 18 years ago or so.) On Saturday, we didn’t get in until almost 9PM, so there was no chance of going to the game, but I was offered blue raspberry cotton candy from some depressed and semi-drunken Reds fan on the street. After gently declining (and proudly yet silently noting that I had 2 Reds on my fantasy team) and attempting to locate the Indians’ hotel (found the Westin, but no sign of baseball players), we spent the next hour or so at a nearby piano bar and called it a night. Next time, I’ll have to make time for a game. Or stay at the Westin. Or both.