My husband left town last night to go to Dodger (that’s baseball for those who are sports-challenged) Fantasy Camp. For a week. Now, you might think that I’m going to start ranting and raving about how typical this is, and about how unfair it is that he gets to go off and indulge in some stupid fantasy while I am stuck home with the reality of two kids and a nasty chest cold, but I’m not. I know, I know, it’s a bummer, because it would have been super fun. But the truth is, it was my idea. It was my gift to him, actually, for his thirty-fifth birthday. One week in Vero Beach, Florida, a/k/a Dodgertown, where he gets to pretend that he’s a genuine, Los Angeles Dodger (His own home and away team uniforms! A real baseball card with his picture on it! Double-headers every day!), with absolutely zero guilt about it from me. Yes, I know, I’ve outdone myself this time. But just because I promised that there would be no guilt, does not mean that there will be no ridiculing. See? And you thought this wasn’t going to be fun.
There are two parts to the back story. First, my husband played baseball in college, and he is, actually, quite good. As he likes to say, if he were just two inches taller, it would have been Michael Green, not Shawn Green. (Just nod here and pretend you know that Shawn Green is a thirty-five year-old Jewish guy from
Anyway, he is REALLY excited about Dodger Camp. For one thing, he seriously thinks he’s going to get drafted into the minors. Apparently, many of the coaches at Dodger Camp are real, minor league coaches, and Michael sincerely believes that they are going to ask him to come play for them. Mind you, it is a known fact that no fantasy camp player has EVER been asked to stay, but such a grim statistic is no deterrent for Michael Green. In fact, such a grim statistic only motivates him more. Not only will he be drafted, but he will be the first fantasy camp player ever to be drafted. As such, he has been in training – training, mind you, for a place that openly acknowledges that it is not for real; that it is, in fact, a FANTASY – for the last three months. Wind sprints, batting practice, nightly shoulder exercises; he even hired a former pro to play catch with him a few times a week. I thought I was just giving him a nice birthday present, but instead, I’ve created a monster. A very fit monster with highly developed shoulders, but a monster nonetheless.
I have to admit it, though, I am a little bit jealous. Not jealous that he gets to go away for a week or jealous that he would rather play baseball than spend time with me. (Please, there are nights where I would rather do the crossword puzzle than even look at him.) No, I’m jealous that he has something in his life that he enjoys so much, and is so passionate about, that his eyes sparkle whenever he thinks about it. I’m jealous that he has a fantasy that can actually be fulfilled. I tried, I tried really hard, to come up with something equivalent for me, but I couldn’t do it. I mean, do they have a Perfect Mother with Perfect Children, Motivated, Productive Writer, Gourmet Chef Fantasy Camp? Because I’d consider going to that. Or maybe, You Can Have It All Fantasy Camp, or better yet, You Can Have It All, and You Can Also Eat Chocolate For Every Meal and Not Gain a Pound Fantasy Camp? Because these are the kinds of fantasies that I have. But oh, to be a man. To be fulfilled by something as simple as baseball. You know, maybe I’m being too hard on my husband. He’s not crazy. He’s just an amateur, that’s all.