Apparently,
    I’m cursed.

Not the thunderclap,
    lightning-strike kind—

    mine is quieter.
    Pettier.

Sport-specific.

The team I root for?
    They lose.

    Almost. Every. Time.

Braves’ home opener?
    L.

And yeah,
    I was cheering. (_For her_. Which somehow makes it worse.)

She swears I jinx them.
    I call it coincidence.

The Universe?
    calls it comedy.

But there’s one exception—
    the Dodgers.

They don’t lose.
    Not with that cap on,
    Not while I’m watching,
    Not when I’m locked in…

    like every pitch might rewrite fate.

And that?
    That’s Pops.

His team,
    His ghost in the glove,
    His hand on my shoulder,

    every time the ball flies.

Must be him—
    holding the curse at bay,

    keeping the W's coming.

Or maybe I just focus harder—
               keeping score,
            grading the umps,
          predicting pitches…

    when it's *his* colors on the field.

Either way,
    I wore the cap *for her* yesterday—

    and Atlanta fell.

No late-night texts,
    no playful postgame banter.

Just me,
    one empty screen,
    and a whole city…

    side-eyeing my support.

Still,
    I’ll keep wearing it—
              right team,
           wrong outcome,

    but always the right reason.

And maybe next time—
    Pops'll spread those W's around.