I was never much of a baseball guy growing up. I never did Little League, just played a season of softball. Maybe it was that softball season that kind of soured me. We had black uniform shirts, not the kind of garb you want to be sporting in a Kansas City summer. On top of that, we sucked. A losing summer, coupled with occasional bouts of dehydration and heatstroke, doesn't really merit a spot among one's fondest memories.

Being a baseball fan, though, wasn't so bad. We were fairly recent immigrants whose life was dramatically improved by coming to the States. My parents loved all things American, and they naturally espoused the most All-American of sports. Like most kids, I liked going to the ball game, in Kansas City, back in the days when it was still Royals Stadium, and our boys played on artificial turf. I liked it but really didn't love it. Maybe if baseball were a bit faster-paced. Or maybe if Steve Garvey or Jim Palmer had been the big star on the Royals instead of George Brett.

So it's strange that now, years later, I'm baseball obsessed. Or, more specifically, Red Sox obsessed, planning my waking hours around their schedule. It has a lot to do with David Cone (more on that later) and a good friend named Jill.

My best friend at work for almost a decade was Jill Merloni. We had lunch together almost every day, which I think qualifies us as "common law" in 17 states. When Jill and I first became friends, her brother Louie was still at Providence College. I remember when Louie got drafted by the Red Sox, and I would hear about his progression up the ranks of Single, Double, and Triple A. Then his best buddy Nomar Garciaparra was injured, and Louie got The Call.

Louie's Fenway debut in 1999 was incredible. We got there just in time to see him make the first out of the game, a pop-up to third. The best was yet to come. Later, he came up to the plate, two men on … it goes to a full count … he swings …the crack of the bat …

You know how the scene is the same in every cheesy baseball movie? The swing, the crack of the bat, everything goes into slow motion, everything's quiet, the ball hangs in the air forever, the camera pans to the open-mouthed, wide-eyed fans … then the ball clears the wall, and the crowd explodes. You know why they film it like that? Because that's how it happens in real life. Louie's three-run homer ended up deciding the game, and Red Sox Nation had a local hero.

Unfortunately Louie's first-game heroics weren't enough to keep him on the roster. His presence or absence from the team pretty much determined my fan status. When Louie was on the roster, I was a big Red Sox fan. Every time he got sent down, it's as if the Red Sox didn't exist. But something happened during the 1999 ALCS that told me my interest in baseball went a lot deeper than a casual my-friend's-brother-plays-on-the-team thing. 

I had gone to a neighborhood watering hole to watch one of the games. I forget which game it was, and I forget the score. All I remember is the Red Sox played badly--errors, botched plays, ugly at-bats, and plenty of squandered opportunities. Every inning I sat on that barstool, the torture got worse and worse. What I didn't admit to anyone there is that sometime in the late innings of that horrendous loss, I went to the bathroom and threw up. It's not that I drank too much or the pizza didn't agree with me. I was actually so upset over my team's loss that I upchucked.

This is not the reaction of a casual fan. This probably isn't even the reaction of a psychologically healthy, well-balanced human being. But that's what happened.

Fortunately, in a way, Louie went off to Japan for the 2000 season, granting me a reprieve from what was to become my baseball obsession, as well as an opportunity to remain in a state of denial over my rather extreme reaction. 

I could deny my true nature for only so long, however. Louie came back to the Sox toward the end of last season because he was so damn miserable in Japan. When general manager Dan Duquette managed to snag Manny Ramirez in the off-season, I was pretty impressed. I knew Ramirez was just the kind of player this team needed to turn things around, which of course meant that the Sox would never get him. But they did! 

Then came the really big signing. I realize I am the only who considers David Cone to be the really big signing of the off-season, but he was for me. Growing up gay, going to a conservative, working-class Catholic high school in Kansas in the late 70s and early '80s … let's just say it wasn't the best of times. I went to college in Connecticut, determined to leave Kansas City behind. Although I settled down in New England and can't imagine ever leaving, I eventually started to feel a real nostalgia for Kansas City - country music, Midwestern friendliness, and the brass-tacks common sense. I guess a part of me wanted to think that growing up there wasn't so bad, or at least that it didn't have to be so bad.

I started following stories from this year's spring training with vigorous interest. I didn't realize that among die-hard baseball fans, spring training is serious stuff. There are daily reports in all the local papers, nightly reports on the local TV news, and even the occasional half-hour special. Who knew? I discovered how much information was available on the Internet for the hungry fan: three local papers with extensive Sox coverage, fan sites, pictures galore, message boards. You could spend a good chunk of time every day with all this stuff. And I did.

The Kansas City connection was half of why Cone appealed to me. The rest of it? Let's see … David Cone is in his late 30's, originally from Kansas City, went to Rockhurst High, and is trying to make a comeback. I'm in my late 30's, originally from Kansas City, went to Bishop Miege (Rockhurst's archrival), and was a laid-off dot-commer  trying to figure things out career-wise. Uh, no similarities there. We're both on winning streaks: Cone has had a fine year (8-4) and I've landed a job with a very stable company.

At first, I was blissfully unaware of the psychological underpinnings to my David Cone fanaticism. I just followed every detail of his Red Sox life: every day of spring training, the shoulder tendinitis, the rehab stint, and then--gulp--his Red Sox debut. I died a bit inside when he didn't fare so well in his first few outings. During the rough early going, I felt like the only David Cone fan in all of Red Sox Nation, but I didn't care. I would log onto every fan chat and message board I could find and staunchly defend my fellow Kansas Citian to all naysayers. 

I'll never forget his first win. He was the pitcher of record for the win as long as Derek Lowe held on for the save. In typical fashion, Lowe made it a nail-biter. I was at a bar and announced to everyone within earshot that I would have to kill Derek Lowe with my bare hands if he blew this save. I was so wrapped up in the game that I barely noticed my barmates inching away from me. Coney got the win, and the comeback was starting to chug along.

In the process of following the David Cone comeback story, I gave in to my true nature as an obsessed, die-hard baseball fan. I read every Sox article in the three local papers, daily. I've even taken to listening to sports radio. I watch almost every game, first pitch to last out. Each game lasts about three or so hours, and there are 162 games in about 180 days. 

I used to make excuses to non-Sox friends, begging off of some things, showing up late for others, just so I could catch a game. Now they all know better and factor the team's schedule into my arrival time. I was supposed to visit my mom, who was spending the summer with her sister in Long Island. I planned my trip for July 7-14. July 7 and 8 were against Atlanta (games on TBS); July 9-11 was the All-Star break; and July 12-14 were against the Mets (local broadcast). Fulfilled all family obligations without missing a single game.

My love of the Red Sox now goes far beyond fondness for "a bunch of dirt dogs who hate to lose," identification with David Cone, and even beyond my temple-popping lust for Tim Wakefield. It would be impossible to tally up all the hours I've spent talking about the Sox with my friends, my fellow sports bar patrons, and my barber. Somewhere along the line, the Red Sox ceased to be "they" and "them" - everything Sox-related is now "we" and "us." "We got swept by Oakland." "Our bullpen is really stretched." "Sabes can come back and really help us." You get the picture.

The Red Sox are my boys. I live and die with every pitch. There's a bounce in my step after every win, and I'm always a bit snarly after a loss. No further episodes of loss of stomach contents yet, but there are still three weeks to go in the season.