Batter up.

In January 2016, as a freelance writing gig was coming to an end, I spent a lot of time dreaming about all the nothing I would do with my newfound free time. What would it be like to finish work, go home, and not open my laptop to work some more? What would it be like to not have the monthly school loan payments, courtesy of six months of writing golf copy until 2am? What would I do first? Workout? Eat? Go to a movie? Catch up on sporting news?...Date?

The number one question I get since moving to the desert southwest: "Have you seen any scorpions?" 

Just missing the top spot, the second-most asked question is the greatly maligned: "So are you seeing anyone?"

Next question.

If I got paid for every time someone asked me about my relationship status, I wouldn't have had to take the freelance gig to pay off my school loans. In fact, I probably could have paid off my school loans, purchased a small island, and erased national debt. For me, moving across the country was a new adventure. The last thing I was looking for in Arizona was a boyfriend. But so many people were so excited for me to find "the one" in the desert. "Maybe you'll meet your future husband in Arizona!" 

Or maybe I'll enjoy accomplishing my dream of being paid to write for a living.

Why isn't anyone excited about that?

When the male/female ratio is not in your favor, it takes a Red Sea-style miracle to even meet a man. But two years into the AZ adventure, I figured maybe it was time to try. I still very clearly remember the look of pure glee on a colleague's face when I told her I was going to get out there. She was so excited for me to go online and find love. I reminded her that the odds were not in my favor and that it would most likely be an epic disaster, but the impending doom seemed even more exciting than a happily ever after. "Either way," she said, "I'll get to hear good stories!"

The 90-Day experiment

After a bit of research and plenty of misgivings, I realized I'd always find an excuse to not date. So while procrastinating over copy for the Waste Management Open, I set up a dating profile and started swiping. I decided to give it three months. I knew myself. I knew if I had one bad experience, I'd delete everything, so I needed to create some boundaries to operate in. And let's be honest...if I didn't stick it out for three months, I'd have no good stories to tell.

Without this little dating experiment, I never would have known that:
a) I'm wasting my sexual prime
b) there's something wrong with me because I don't eat bread
c) girls that start the conversation are "usually sluts" 

Thank you, dating!

The outcome

So what did I learn? It's going to take something and someone special to tempt me away from the single life.

I also learned that dating's pretty much a numbers game. It's like the Moneyball concept. You have to improve the OBP.

Over a 90-day period I had numerous conversations with random strangers in my designated demographic and ended up going out on 30 first dates. There was one very regrettable second date and one date with a self-admitted catfish. There was one guy who regaled me with stories of his Tinder experiences, telling me he wasn't sure about the Bumble app because girls that talk first are "usually sluts." Really? Is this why I'm not meeting anyone? Because I'm friendly? Initiating a conversation means I have loose morals?

Of those 30 dates, there were four guys I would see again, and one guy I'd happily travel the world with--my hard hit straight to centerfield--my high fly, so-close-to-a-home-run-boy.

By the numbers

If we break this 90-day odyssey into baseball terms (not a perfect comparison, but work with me here)...let's say days are games, conversations are at bats. Conversations that went nowhere are strikes; conversations that got no replies, a strikeout looking. And that cute guy that backed out every time we were supposed to go out? Balk. First dates I enjoyed we'll call singles. First dates I endured...walks. The terrible mistake second date was an error--we'll blame it on the first base player. Because it should have ended five minutes into the first date. (Long story.) The catfish was like getting hit by a pitch. The guys I liked...high flies because I never heard from them again. There was also that one guy who cancelled a second date. I had a good lead off of first base--then after a week of conversation as usual, I got a "it's not you, it's me" text. Kind of like getting caught stealing before I even took off.

Oh look--there's me. #fail

So, without having a scorecard to actually chart this out...this is essentially what we're looking at:

90 games 

102 at bats 
57 K 
15 KL 
17 BB 
8 1B (1 CS) 
1 HBP 
1 E5 
4 F8 
1 F7 

The Moneyball stats? 
OBP = .216 
Slugging percentage = .078 

No need to discuss that batting average.

No. It most certainly is not.

More numbers
In 30 dates, I split the bill three times, paid completely once, and picked up an $80 bar tab. There was the guy that told me how he couldn't wait to meet me, then backed out each time we made plans. There was the guy that asked me to come over and give him a leg massage (really? that's the line you're going with?) Then there was the guy, who answered my question asking about his favorite wine with: "ur hot lol." First of all, use real words. And second..."lol"? Are you laughing out loud because you think I'm hot? Or because you don't know how to have an adult conversation? Then of course, there was Mr. Dooshay. In a fit of rage over my refusal to have sex with him (after two hours of lackluster conversation) he told me Prince Charming doesn't exist, that I'm old, and that I'm wasting my sexual prime. Oh, and because I wouldn't have sex with him, I'm going to have autistic children. 

Was that supposed to convince me to change my mind? Um...not sorry for saying no thanks. After politely turning him down, he then tried bullying me. It started with a verbal assault and when I still didn't cave, he tried to physically overpower me. I had to fight him off. "I'll never force a girl, but I'll always try." Excuse me? So, when a girl turns you down, you'll try to rape her? What part of "no" means something else? I can't believe people like this exist.

1-2-3 strikes, you're out
So that was it. 30 first dates and a new found passion for the single life. There was no magical 20-date winning streak, no wild card fairytale, no emotional 9th inning walk-off happily-ever-after home run. As my self-imposed deadline drew near, I wondered if I could just abandon the dates. Like...what if you get a hit by a pitch but aren't interested in advancing to first? What is the procedure?

And out of curiosity, is there a DH option? Like surrogate dating? Someone else can go and meet my date. If they hit it off, then I step in as pinch runner. Actually, nevermind. That's a terrible idea. I tried something like that before--I asked my friend to talk to a cute guy for me and then they ended up dating. Yes, it was middle school. Obviously, I'm still not over it. 

Maybe I'm just bad at the whole guy/girl thing. I mean, I played soccer growing up. I have no eye/hand coordination. I strike out in slow pitch softball. I can't tell a good pitch from a bad pitch. Looking back over those 30 first dates, there were a few guys I liked but too many weren't even worth taking a swing at. Talk to anyone who loves and studies baseball and they'll tell you it's like art. I submit to you that this hot mess called dating is also an art.

One of the guys I liked was an ump. Loved the game. He referred to baseball as a dance. It's romance. The smell of the grass. The swing of the bat. The perfect crack when the ball makes contact--wood or aluminum bat, it doesn't matter. That sound carries a team's hope and dreams.

Indeed.

The moonshot

My junior year of college, the baseball team was at the regional finals. They were one run down with no outs. Three runners on. Bottom of the ninth. The best hitters were up next in the order. One hit--one good sac fly--tie game and extra innings. The atmosphere was perfect for a dramatic ending. Little did any of us know how dramatic it would be. First up was our best hitter. He swung, but it wasn't enough and he was out at first. Up next--the second best hitter. Struck out. Up next--and carrying the hope of the team--the right fielder. He entered the game the inning before as a pinch runner. As he walked to the plate, you could feel more than hear the fans' groans. Hopes were dismal. He was most definitely not known for his batting prowess. And with the game on the line, the pitches started. A ball. Another ball. A strike. Two fouls and then it was a full count. Heavy drama. Nobody was seated in the dugout. Everyone was at the fence, fingers curled around the chain link, watching this skinny Italian kid from Long Island and hoping against hope he could make something happen. The ball left the pitcher's hand and everything went silent. Then that sound. That crack that captures and carries the hopes of a team. And that ball sailed. Straight over the infield, past the left fielder, and out of the park. Grand slam. Game over. An unbelievable ending engineered by the unlikeliest of heroes.

Like first dates, every at bat is full of possibility. As hard as it might be, you have to forget what happened in the previous inning. Each at bat is a new chance to swing for the fences. You never know what pitches you'll see, what chances you'll take, what successes you'll have. You can't let the bad at-bats keep you from stepping back up to the plate. You always hope. You dream about the moonshot. That bottom of the ninth, 2 out, full count grand slam. That one that will be a game changer. [This might look like a nice guy with a big heart and a great 5 o'clock shadow. He might rock a suit but look just as good in jeans and a grungy baseball hat. He might like cooking, drive a truck, love to laugh, enjoy adventure, tolerate a little artistic chaos, and be sports-literate, but above all be passionate about the things he believes in. Bonus points if he joins you for yoga. Then again, maybe that's just my bottom of the 9th grand slam dream.] 

You might be wondering if, at the end of the day, I cried about any of it.

Um. Hello. How is that even a question?

Not even close. 

Stay in the game. Wherever you are, don't get overwhelmed by the count. Watch the pitches. Wait for the good ones. And then swing for the fences. 

Batter up.