I'd left the game behind,
  hadn't followed at all—
              in *years*—

  not since strikes,
           steroids,
           scandals,

  and grown-up distractions…

  quietly replaced box scores
  and Sunday games with Pops.

But then she started talking Opening Day
          like it was a national holiday,
             sending hype and highlights,
                       projected lineups,
                    and hometown loyalty…

  like it belonged in her blood.

Somewhere between her texts and that grin, I was back—

Tracking the Dodgers, (for Pops)
         the Rangers, (for all those long DFW summers)
         the Cardinals, (for her roots)

     and the Braves, (for… well, maybe for more than just her area code)

Now I’m checking scores mid-conversation,
                   texting play-by-plays,

  loving the long, slow stretch of the season—

  the way it builds,
            unwinds…

  surprises you in the bottom of the ninth—

  like the Ohtani homer looping in my head.

Funny how the game I left behind
  pulled me back through her voice,
                       her passion,

  her laughter at my sudden obsession.

I never thought
  it was just a game,
  but now—

  it *feels* like even more.

I’m not quite sure
  what I’m being taken out to—

  the ballgame?
  the deep end?…

  the edge of something permanent?

But I’m here for it.

Whatever this is turning into,
                   I'm all in.

Cap on.

Glove ready.

Heart wide open.

(Hope she brings the peanuts and cracker jack.)