I used to play for the Phillies. I was 6-years-old at the time. The Phillies were the name of my Little League baseball team in Loudoun County, Virginia. Now I’m a 20+ year resident of the sport-obsessed town that birthed the team name, and “Phillies” is one of the last words I want to hear. This is nothing against Bryce Harper, Brandon Marsh, Kyle Schwarber or the other names I’ve heard in passing, it’s just a low-grade annoyance with sports fandom in general. I don’t care for the yelling at the players and coaches on the television or at the opposing team’s fans in the stands. I don’t care for the sour moods I see when ‘our team’ of professional athletes brought to our city by draft trades and money lose a game. I find the idea of wearing a local sports team apparel akin to wearing a New York City hat or The Beatles shirt. Oh wow, you selected an interest that 80% of the population enjoys? And you decided to showcase that as a facet of your personality? Neat.

No offense to the hordes of identically-dressed patrons at the local bar in their overpriced MLB jerseys, but I earned the graphic designs on my clothes. The cideries hidden away from all the beer-swigging sports bars of this country. The ska bands who continue to play music that has not seen popularity since the late 90s. The obscure locations and organizations from movies and videogames. The public transit agencies, forever standing on their last legs against dwindling state funding. I wear these badges as a reminder that my interests have been criticized and made fun of from every angle throughout my life, and I love them all the more for it. Bryson Stott’s 5th home run of the season will not affect my life at all, but a new Septa fleet of Hitachi Rail cars to replace the outdated stock on the Market-Frankford elevated line certainly will.

I was always a sports Scrooge, even wearing that Phillies uniform in 1993. My parents insisted on me playing a sport every year, bouncing me from one to another in hopes that something would stick and develop into a social life. I was driven to baseball games, tennis matches, soccer scrimmages and swim meets, all scored with the buzzing static soundtrack of my dad listening to Baltimore Orioles games on the AM radio. After 8 years of this, something finally did stick, a sport called marching band. We were arguably cheerleaders, playing in the stands during games and marching out into the field during intermission, but we didn’t think of ourselves that way. We were different, straight-A students of art and culture amidst a sea of meatheads liable to kick our asses for knowing the difference between an oboe and a bassoon.

I could outline the major story beats of my life over the next 30 years that got me to where I am, but you already know them. You knew them the second you read my pseudo-intellectual take on sports and mainstream culture. You probably have an image of me in high school, poorly dressed and lanky with all the social grace of Captain Spock, maybe being shoved in a locker or two. You can imagine me awkwardly approaching high school crushes and being rejected, because what choice did I really leave them? I was no physical specimen, and even if I had been, who wants the guy that thinks they’re too smart for everybody?

There’s a quote from Mike Birbiglia where he tells a regrettable story from his past and says, “I know, I’m in the future also.” I consume books, TV shows, and movies; I can clearly see the trope I inhabited growing up and continue to inhabit as an adult. Just like everyone else, I see through the cultivated evil-genius-rejecting-the-world-that-rejected-him exterior to the human being that wants love and acceptance. After all, I didn’t move to a secret lair in the mountains overlooking the town to exact my revenge. I moved directly into the heart of the city, and the city with the most passionate sports fans at that. I can envision myself with them in an alternate universe, cheering on the home team from the stands, enjoying a domestic beer, maybe waving a miniature American flag as I engage with America’s pastime. I don’t hate that version of me. I’m maybe even something close to proud of him for taking life at face value and celebrating it for what it is. But in this universe, I’m not him. And your incessant chatter about the game and stats means about as much to me as my yammering about the rubber-tired Azur class Bombardier metro trains of Montreal means to you. Let’s try to show each other respect and be sensitive to our different lived experiences.

This piece is in Recommend If You Like The Baseball Issue Summer 2026. You can find physical copies in bars, cafes and stores in Chicago and Washington, D.C. The newspaper is available for purchase here. 

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