Experiencing 2005: JD earns my love

A simple exhortation from the stands might have keyed the championship run

As the 2005 season got underway, I started to keep things — ticket stubs, newspaper articles — and I began to jot thoughts down. I started an essay after the 2005 season that I never finished. All of those writings have never seen the light of day, but here we are, 15 years later, with no current baseball, so maybe it’s a good time to drag them out. Some of these entries will be full-length, others shorter. They represent my thoughts and feelings at the time, with very little present-day editing.

May 19, 2005
Christine is in town, so let's face it, I wasn't going to work today anyway. Sixty degrees and sunny + mid-week day game = baseball, duh.

I met Christine my first week in graduate school, and we clicked instantly. Seven years and many whiskey sours and Totino's Pizza Rolls later, she remains my best friend. She was regrettably born into a Yankees family, but I can count on her to root for the home team today.

The White Sox are 28-12, and held the lead at some point in every one of their first 37 games. They have had a remarkable late April and early May run that sees them go 16-3, with two eight-game win streaks. I call my parents nearly every day, certainly after a particularly thrilling win. If my mother picks up, upon hearing my voice, she'll say, "I'll get your dad."

"You know," I marvel in one such phone call, "With this pitching staff, I feel that if we score three runs, we're going to win. Like, every time."

"I know what you mean, Laura." My father replies, then falls silent for a moment. "It's weird, isn't it?"

If I have a complaint, it's with Jermaine Dye. He's been hitting worse than .200 most of the year, and he's slugging around .400. I miss Maggs.

This is my sixth game of the season, and as with the first five, I buy my scorecard from the same vendor outside Gate 4.

Christine and I settle into right field with our beers and Italian sausage (me) and pizza (her). In the second inning, Dye comes to the plate. I yell, at the top of my lungs, "Come on, Jermaine, make me love you!" 

I don't plan to do this. I just open my mouth, and out it comes. Christine turns to me, "What?" I explain my disgruntlement. 

JD hits a double.

Fourth inning, bases loaded, JD up to bat. What the hell, I think. "Come on, Jermaine, make me love you!"

Another double, two RBI.

Sixth inning. Another "Come on, Jermaine, make me love you!" from me. Another double from JD.

"Do you love him yet?" Christine asks.

"You know, I'm getting there."

Sox win, 7-0.

I'm no dummy. Every game I attend the rest of the season, every time JD comes to the plate, I yell the same thing: "Come on, Jermaine, make me love you!" I get weird looks from strangers every time. Oh, well; that's not going to stop me. Every now and then, somebody will ask me about it. I tell them this story. They inevitably nod. "Right on. You keep yelling that, then."

Prior installments of Experiencing 2005
The Offseason
Opening Day
Early April voicemails
One Hour, 39 Minutes