Ah, yes, the time has come. The sacred season is upon us, and with it, a new set of house rules that must be understood and, more importantly, followed. To all the wives and girlfriends out there, please understand that we have given you our full, undivided attention for the past several months. We’ve endured weeks of shopping trips, listened to endless conversations about your work drama, and even feigned interest in that new reality show about people who bake things. We’ve proven our commitment.
Now, the tables have turned.
From this weekend forward, our time is no longer our own. It belongs to the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, and the meticulous monitoring of our favorite team’s bullpen. This is not a choice; it is a primal need, a deep-seated urge that cannot be ignored.
So, if you find us staring blankly at the wall while you’re talking, it’s not because we’re not listening. We are, in fact, mentally calculating a player’s on-base percentage. If you ask us to take out the trash and we don’t respond, it’s because our hands are busy tracking a runner on second base from our phone. And if you catch us muttering to ourselves, we’re not losing our minds; we’re simply delivering a passionate, in-depth analysis of a manager’s questionable decision to leave in a struggling pitcher.
We understand this may be difficult for you, but please, for the good of the relationship, let us have our space. We promise to be back in the fall, ready to hear all about the new throw pillows you bought. But for now, we have a game to watch.
