The Gal of Summer

I guessed that becoming a sports fan was like acquiring a foreign language, best done during childhood, when one's brain and emotions are more pliable. Plus: Who has time to become a fan as an adult, to learn all the subtleties of the game -- 162 very long games -- let alone to build a team attachment? I have a challenging full-time job and two young children. I volunteer and belong to a book club. I have a busy life, like that of many women, which will turn out to be downright grueling this summer, as we will decide to sell our house in the first down real estate market in years and move in September.

So my first thought was: This experiment is doomed from the start. But then I allowed for the slimmest chance that all my preconceptions could turn out to be wrong and, thus provoked, decided to give it a try.

"HEY, NICKY!"

The sound pummeling me from behind is what you would call a bellow -- deep, guttural, the New York accent unmistakable: Think Robert De Niro in "Taxi Driver." "This is a far cry from Yankee Stadium -- huh, friend?" A sarcastic guffaw. "Johnson, he's talkin' to himself right now; he's saying, 'Yeah, you're right.'"

Bruce and I are inside the hulk of gray concrete with turquoise plastic seats that is Space Coast Stadium, site of the Nats' spring training, and the guy one row back is yelling. Afraid to turn all the way around, I catch a glimpse of him with my peripheral vision. He's a white guy, middle-age, with a buzz cut and sunglasses. His sweaty red T-shirt clings to his ample gut. The stadium, home to the minor league Brevard Manatees, is not even half-full, but over the next couple days, our friend the Yank will help obscure that fact.

Top of the first inning, the Nats are in the field, and a young rookie is on the mound. ("Frank Robinson knows he won't make the roster but is checking him out, seeing how he'll do," Bruce is narrating, in his role as my baseball tutor.) Today's opponent, the St. Louis Cardinals, score a run, as the Nats fumble a ball in the outfield. "Hey, Johnson!" booms the Yank. "Take I-95 North to Yankee Stadium. We need ya up there!"

Bruce and I exchange a look, and a couple of things occur to me. First: Could I really occupy the same fan base as this guy? Secondly, I start racking my brain for what I know so far about Nats first baseman and power hitter Nick Johnson from reading the sports section. It's the usual just-the-stats résumé, tagged with the fact that he's injury-prone -- a bruised heel last season, a back strain and a bruised cheekbone the year before.

My colleague Lynda tells me that I'll stand a better chance of becoming a fan if I bone up on the players' individual narratives, particularly off the field. And while it sounds a bit stereotypical -- of course, as a woman, I have a need to relate, right? -- I know she's on to something. In 1996, when NBC sought to lure more female viewers by featuring dozens of up-close-and-personal profiles of the athletes in its Olympics coverage, I inhaled -- surprising myself by remaining glued to the television even during that most Neanderthal of sports: boxing. ("Men will sit through the Olympics for almost anything, as long as they get to see some winners and losers," Dick Ebersol, president of NBC Sports, was quoted saying at the time. Women, he said, "want to know who the athletes are, how they got there, what sacrifices they've made. They want an attachment, a rooting interest.") But while my regard for The Post's sportswriters will only increase as the summer progresses, I quickly realize they're writing about baseball for those who already love the sport, not for those in need of seduction.

A few days later, when the Nats take a calculated risk and sign Johnson to a three-year, $16.5 million contract extension, I will learn in the closest thing to a biography that I will get that Johnson tends to "internalize his emotions." In other words, I'm not the only one to whom gender stereotypes may apply here. It appears baseball is rife with strong, silent types. I'm still hopeful I'll form an attachment to the rookie third baseman from my alma mater, Ryan Zimmerman. Fresh out of the University of Virginia, Zimmerman is described by a rival scout in my Street & Smith's as a potential star, "a low-ball hitter" -- I have no idea why that's significant, but it's apparently a rare skill for a rookie -- with "a real good-looking swing."

Of course, I know the player on whom everybody's hopes are pinned is Alfonso Soriano, the four-time all-star slugger and second baseman from the Texas Rangers who, as spring training begins, is in a standoff with the Nats because he doesn't want to move to left field. On this day, he's out of town, representing his native Dominican Republic in the World Baseball Classic, and it's just as well. I've decided he's the kind of overpaid egomaniacal pro athlete I disdain.

For the first few innings against the Cardinals, I am an eager beaver with the note-taking, while coach Bruce cheerfully provides a running commentary on the game's fine points. I ask why some black players have hitched up their pants to show their stirrup socks, and he explains that it's in tribute to the old Negro Leagues. Chris Carpenter, the Cardinals' pitcher, is one of the best in baseball, he tells me, and I watch during one inning as Carpenter quickly strikes out Johnson, then Zimmerman. Bruce explains to me that Johnson "struck out looking," meaning he struck out without swinging on the third strike. But by the fourth inning, my attention is flagging. If it weren't for the experiment, I'd be reaching for a magazine about now.

The Nats haven't scored yet. I look over at Bruce, who seems unperturbed. "Smooth . . . Nice play," he murmurs, when Zimmerman catches a hard groundball and throws it to first for an out. In the top of the sixth inning, the Cardinals have loaded the bases again, but the Nats pitcher ends the inning with a strikeout. "That's what you call getting out of a jam," Bruce narrates, and I think he's just stating the obvious, until he explains that it's actually a baseball term describing when a pitcher manages to extricate himself from an inning in which the other team has put multiple runners on base.