When it comes to baseball, I'll strike out on my own
by Beth Teitell

Wednesday, April 4, 2001

On Opening Day, as the Red Sox were losing to the Baltimore Orioles, I called the lone sports fan I know. ``Give me a trick for remembering who's who,'' I said. ``Something easy.''

``Easier than having their names on their shirts?'' she asked.

Well, yes.

(And besides, the names are only on the away uniforms, so to the extent that that even helps, it's only half the time, and does nothing for you if the unthinkable happens and you find yourself at Fenway.)

I didn't want any of the boring stuff, either, the trivia they put in tiny type in those scary boxes you see in the sports section - the batting averages, the runs, the ``SO's,'' whatever those are. Even if you do learn those numbers, once you turn your head, they're gone.

I needed juicy stats. Like number of girlfriends dumped (GD), commercials appeared in (CAI), or drug arrests (DA). Why can't the Red Sox have a Darryl Strawberry?

I don't want what I'm about to say seem as if I prefer football to baseball, because I don't, but that mosh pit scandal by the Patriots boys sure made it easy to remember who Drew Bledsoe is. (Pedro, think about it.)

``OK,'' my tutor began. ``Derek Jeter. He's simple. He's in the peanut butter ads and he's adorable.''

Was this some kind of trick, or was it too good to be true? I know Jeter. He was on the cover of either GQ or New York Magazine awhile back looking sharp in a suit. But he's a Red Sox? ``He plays for our team?'' I asked, on guard.

No. It turns out he does not. ``But Nomar does!'' I yelled. I remembered seeing the name on the front page of Monday's Herald, and wasn't above showing off a bit. ``Yes,'' she said, ``but don't get too excited. He's out for almost half the season.''

Great. Just my luck. I'm making an honest effort to learn about the home team, and Garciaparra goes and has wrist surgery.

Let's see. Who else is there? Roger Clemens? He wasn't, by any chance - please - traded back? With all the focus on his weight problems, he's an easy one for me.

No. Darn. Still playing for New York, apparently.

``Listen,'' my teacher said, ``it's not that hard. Just wait for the sports to come on the news, and you'll see an interview with that day's pitcher and whoever got the big hit. The team only has 25 players. And it wouldn't kill you to watch a game.''

What? I'd actually have to study? This was going to be harder than I thought. Like someone who wants to speak French but has no interest in learning it, I realized I wanted to know baseball without having to . . . watch.

Annoyance began to creep into my friend's voice.

``Brian Daubach,'' she said, ``has really nice teeth.''

Finally something interesting. ``Are they really white, or just superstraight?'' I asked.

``Do you want to know what position he plays?'' she responded, ignoring dental matters.

But it was too late, I was already off, thinking about Julia Roberts' teeth and how they've made her whole career, and how Regis' are too white, if there's such a thing, and how in ``The Mexican'' it was strange because a lot of the supposedly poor people had Hollywood smiles.

The last thing I heard before I hung up was my friend blathering on about David Cone being the pitcher or something, and how I must know what Jimy Williams looks like, and . . . I'm not sure what else.

I was thinking about why my hair never looks good in a baseball cap. Hey, you do what you can.