“Why is it so important that I pretend to be a Yankee fan, Sue?” I said, trying not to be heard above the din at Yankee stadium. “What difference does it make?”

“You can’t pretend!” Sue hissed at me. “Don’t you dare tell anyone in my family that you’re pretending. I don’t want to give them any more reasons to wonder about you.”

“Wonder about me? This is crazy! I’m the baseball fan! You don’t even know how the game is played.”

“Shut up and cheer when I do.”

I sat back and resigned myself to this newest insult to my identity, deciding not to explain her apparent contradiction. I didn’t mind being at ball game with Sue and her family, who occupied the rows ahead of and behind us. I’d enjoy watching a game at any stadium. I didn’t even mind being there with my condescending in-laws. I did, however, object to wearing a Yankee cap when I wasn’t a true fan. I’d always been a Mets fan.

And why not? They were almost always exciting to watch and never predictable, capable of pulling a win out of a loss or a loss out of a win at the very last moment. I liked them because they were more about the performance than the result, more about the drama than the score. Just like me.

I was a freelance graphic artist who married into a family of conservative quasi-professionals and corporate types. Their only measure of worth was income. So, what was I doing in such a marriage? I’m a Mets fan: I was more concerned with drama than success. I hadn’t yet figured out that a marriage wasn’t really like a ball game, no matter how much I wanted it to be. I thought I would have fair play, teamwork, and the unexpected. But, all I got was conflict and bad calls from the umpire (who, in our marriage, was Sue). How predictable; just like a Yankees game.

Just like this Yankees game, too.

At the seventh inning stretch, I excused myself and headed for the men’s room. On the way back I walked past the entrance to our section and wandered around to the opposite side of the stadium. Picking a section at random, I walked down the ramp to look across the stadium. Sue and her relatives were mere specks.

The Yankee bats were hot that inning; I saw their hits go deep into the outfield and many of the foul balls sailed into the stands, where eager hands awaited them.

“Hi Paul,” said a voice right beside me.

“Hillary!” I said as I turned, recognizing her instantly. “What are you doing here?”

“Same thing you are. It’s been years. How are you?”

“Married. How about you?”

“Same.”

“Where’s Ray?”

“Here. Probably stuck on line somewhere getting beer and food.”

Hillary and I enjoyed an intense but brief fling years ago, before I met Sue. It was a sweet affair and I had been deeply in love with her. I despaired when it ended.

We stared at each other awkwardly for several minutes, oblivious to the game and the crowds.

“Happily?” She asked suddenly, breaking our personal silence.

“What?”

“Married. Are you happily married?”

“Not really. Why do you ask?”

Oh, I don’t know. Just curious, I guess. I’ve thought about you a lot, you know.

“I’ve thought about you, too,” I replied, not really thinking about what I said.

“Why did we break up?” Hillary asked.

“You were engaged to Ray. Remember?”

“Oh yes. That. I wasn’t very brave, was I?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about that.”

“I have.”

“Oh,” was the only response I could manage.

“Listen, Hillary,” I said. “I should go now. It’s been great seeing you again.”

“Are you leaving the game now?” She asked, somehow sensing my decision.

“Yes. Well, take care of yourself, Hillary.”

“You too, hon. Maybe we’ll see each other again.”

I turned and left the stadium, somehow certain Hillary was right. And, as I stood alone on the platform of the downtown number 4 train, I realized this had been a great game after all. It had been like a Mets game.