Ignoring the fact that it should never have come to this — a must-win game in Baltimore, potentially followed by a second must-win game in Tampa Bay 21 hours later with the wild card on the line—I consider myself, as a baseball fan, incredibly fortunate.
I, along with thousands of other tourists and transplants, will walk through the turnstiles at Camden Yards tonight to try and will our struggling Boston Red Sox to the playoffs alongside a throng of Orioles fans who are finishing up another sub-.500 season and want nothing more than for us to go home.
After the game, regardless of whether Jon Lester—he of the 14-0 record and 2.33 ERA in 17 career starts against Baltimore—breaks out of his September swoon and pitches the Red Sox to the postseason or not, we will.
Many will return north to New England, as I did three summers ago when my younger brother Andrew and I came down for a pair of mid-August Sox-O's games, to date the most brotherly bonding we've ever done.
Others will head north on Interstate 83 or south on Interstate 95 to one of the pricey area universities for which New England prep schools serve as a farm system, as I did for four years at Loyola University.
I'll shuttle across town to my apartment in Canton, which, no matter where my allegiances lay, is decidedly not a part of Red Sox Nation.
It's no secret to Orioles fans that Red Sox and Yankees fans travel well, nor is it a secret to anyone who's seen them at Camden Yards how unwelcome these visiting fans are.
Baltimore outfielder Adam Jones told Orioles fans in a spring training interview that if defending Camden Yards was so important to them, they should simply knock out visiting fans.
But even before Jones, my favorite player on my second favorite team, told fans that I deserve one in the kisser for wearing a different hat, the notion of rooting against the home team struck me as unsettling.
Ballparks, plain and simply, should not be hostile places. The day before I started work here, I strolled to Camden Yards for a Sunday interleague matinee against the Reds, and was taken aback by how peaceful the park was.
Every other trip I'd made to Oriole Park was either in the upper deck on College Night — far from a peaceful, baseball-centric experience — or involved carpetbagging Red Sox and Yankees fans who brought out the worst in the home fans.
But that afternoon, it was apparent what once made Baltimore's stadium the crown jewel of big league ballparks. There were visiting Reds fans, but there were no grudges. It was all about the baseball.
And in Baltimore, it can be about the baseball. Not New York or Boston, where even the less important games have a corporate feel and many fans are priced out, banished to the upper deck for lack of funds.
That's why so many fans end up at Camden Yards. You could say that these are the true fans, those willing to go a bit out of their way to save a buck and see the team they love in the road grays.
But I'm not a visitor anymore. Baltimore is home now, and to live in Baltimore — even briefly — is to immediately become aware of, but never truly understand, the idiosyncrasies that make this city what it is.
Regardless of quality, Baltimore seems to rally around what it can call its own — whether it's a beer, a burger joint, or a football team. Just the fact that a thing exists, and exists here, is grounds to hold it tight against the city's collective bosom and never let go.
To be good in the eyes of Baltimore is to be of Baltimore. And with this in mind, I've tried to adopt many of the city's customs since moving here four months ago — whether I admit it or not.
I wear purple on Fridays, but write it off as a coincidence when asked and sit in my apartment and cheer for the Patriots on Sundays. I root for the Orioles, who are decidedly less threatening to my team's supremacy than the Ravens, for 148 games each season — except for the ones against Boston. I work for a local newspaper, but only read the Connecticut ones online.
No matter how much I enjoy living in Baltimore, there are certain parts of me that are too ingrained to let go. While not exactly a double life, it's certainly close.
And as I sat outside Camden Yards at a bar on Washington Boulevard before Monday's disappointing loss, donning full Red Sox attire with a visiting friend from Connecticut and three new acquaintances who were down from Massachusetts, the dueling ideals came to a head.
The out-of-towners looked on in curious wonder as the one-eyed, bow-tied Mr. Boh walked around and took pictures with the pre-game crowd of mostly Red Sox fans, leaving me to explain who he was.
But when the mascot and his female handler came over and began to extol the once-local beer's virtues, the two-handedness of what I was doing became apparent.
"Are you guys from around here?" she asked.
Everyone shook their head. I wasn't so sure.
"Well, I'm from Connecticut," I told her, "but I live here now."
"OK, so none of you are from Baltimore?" she asked again.
Nope. I was another out-of-towner trying to embrace a city that, whether Baltimore is home for five years or 50, I doubt I'll ever understand. Another know-nothing twenty-something who thought he had lifetime membership in the Baltimore Club for having seen The Wire, eaten at Polock Johnny's and slugged a few Natty Bohs.
But like any relationship, mine with my new home city can only become complete when I forsake my Connecticut roots and throw myself wholly into the Baltimore way, something I doubt will ever happen.
Until then, with my roots in one place and the rest of my life growing, literally, toward The Sun, my life consists of many shades of gray.
Tonight, as luck would have it, that aligns me with the Red Sox, who will wear the road grays for Game 162, the biggest of the season. And for once, as a Red Sox fan in Baltimore, this is exactly where I want to be.