I quit therapy. That’s what happened. I went because after my dad died a couple of years ago I started to worry more than usual, about everything. I started to enjoy life less. I Middle age was upon me. Mortality. God knows. Anyway I saw a therapist and after a year I quit. He was a good guy, but I don’t think talking about it helps.

But the anxiety remained. I’ve always thought that people who like sports—who follow teams, who read the sports section, who play in fantasy leagues, who rail at the television during the Superbowl, who drink beer and wear tee-shirts with their teams’ insignia, don’t suffer from this sort of worry-warting. Or perhaps they do, but the sports stuff takes them away from it. It’s a respite. I don’t have a respite.

It’s not that I have no fun in life, I do. I see friends, I travel, I cook, I eat, and I eat some more. It’s just that I never, ever stop worrying. My theory is that that if I can only become a sports fan, I will worry less. I’m not saying this is a good theory, but at least it’s a theory, which is more than I ever came up with in therapy. If it doesn’t work, I’ll have had some interesting experiences and can go back to not caring. If it works, well, then I’ll be a freaking genius and write a self-help book called How I Learned The Meaning of Life in Nine Innings.

So, after 41 years of mostly not caring one way or another about any sort of sport, I’ve decided to become a fan. And because my friend K. is a baseball nut, and because she’s agreed to accompany me to some games so long as I don’t ask dumb questions loud enough for the fans around us to hear, and because it’s April and the baseball season is just beginning, baseball it is. I live in Oakland, so I figure I’ll be an A’s fan. I can see the value in caring about the team that plays in your town. The Giants have all sorts of problems, and the ticket prices are insane. I cared a bit about the Mets and Yankees while I was growing up in NY, but that was a different, much younger me. And I love Oakland, so why not.

I bought tickets to the A’s opener against the Yankees, Barry Zito against Randy Johnson. I read lots of articles about the A’s. I tried to memorize the lineup. I even tried to figure out slugging percentages. But then I figured I was putting too much head into it. I had to lead with my heart. That’s the key to true fandom. So I stopped reading and started getting excited about the game.

It rained all day on April 3rd. I thought I might already be a fan because I was miserable about the possibility of a rainout. Then it stopped raining, and the sky cleared and I became unaccountably nervous. I have no insight into this. It’s not like I would be the one facing Randy Johnson and A-Rod. But I was already worrying—about the traffic, food, crowds, not offending K. with my baseball ignorance.

K. knows of a special, free parking area. It’s only three miles from the stadium. The park looked like it was in a different city from where we parked, but K. assured me it was a nice walk. We passed over the freeway and the cars rushing underneath made me think of how thin the line is between life and death. Was I having fun yet? I considered turning back. K., ever cheerful, paid no attention to me. “Come on,” she said, enthusiastically. She’s not even an A’s fan.

In the parking lot the fans who’d been drinking all afternoon had set several garbage cans on fire. If I become a fan, I won’t do that. I have my limits.

Pre-game festivities included very lame fireworks. Like, maybe the lamest fireworks I’ve ever seen. We had better fireworks in the woods behind my house when I was a kid. Four cannons shot off single flares, as if the people in charge were signaling for help, not trying to entertain 35,000 people. But the 35,000 people cheered like hell despite the lameness and went damn near nuts when they announced the A’s starting lineup. I clapped and cheered. I felt a bit like a poser, but it was also nice to cheer along with the crowd and pretend that I was part of something.

An honor guard held an enormous flag while someone sang the national anthem. At “rockets red glare” more lame fireworks went off. Same for “bombs bursting in air.” The flag, for better or worse “was still there.” Why are sporting events occasion for patriotic displays? Can I become a fan and not feel patriotic. During the anthem people took off their A’s caps and placed them against their hearts. I was wearing a wool cap that protected my head from the increasing cold night air. I left it on. I didn’t sing. I stood, though.

Then there was a nice video tribute to the recently deceased A’s announcer Bill King, who used to say “Holy Toledo” a lot. The moment of silence was pretty impressive because people, everybody, was silent. At the end of the silence someone yelled, “The Yankees Suck” and the statement echoed around the stadium before anyone could react. This seems as if it would have been rude and thoughtless , but actually it was a perfect transition to the game.

Tragically, the person who yelled “The Yankees Suck” turns out not to know very much about baseball. Even less than me, I suppose, because although I don’t read the sports section and don’t own a television, I know the Yankees don’t suck.

The Bombers were particularly unsucky on this occasion. They were almost robotic, seemed to execute effortlessly. They tore into poor Barry Zito as if he were a baked ziti. Within two innings they were up by seven runs, including a grand slam by A-Rod.

I was suddenly totally depressed, and it rapidly became clear that my theory about becoming a fan, and how it might help with my anxiety, is beyond wrong. It’s totally absurd. I care. I have no idea why I care, but I do. I feel very bad, very upset, very nervous. I wish I hadn’t come to the game. In a few innings the Yankees are up by 11 runs.

Zito got canned. We clapped for him on his way out, though I don’t know why. Maybe being a fan means loving the bad and the good. The A’s made several outstanding defensive plays, but they couldn’t get any runs. They Yanks hit everything. They stopped everything. They cannot be beat. Randy Johnson is older than me and he throws a small ball 95 miles per hour into a area the size of my computer monitor from . . . how far? I don’t know. I’ll look it up. But it’s far, that I know.

Here’s how the A’s manager described opening up against the Yankees: “It's like having calculus first period,” Beane said. “You are not real happy when the alarm goes off, but by second period it's already over and you are running off to wood shop.”

I failed wood shop.

A's reliever Brad Halsey plunked two of the first three batters he faced in the fifth. I would not like to get hit with a small solid object traveling at 85 miles per hour.

The game drew 35,077 fans, including 1,000 standing-room only tickets.

The food, surprisingly, was pretty good. I paid 13 bucks for a barbecue chicken dinner with bread and potato salad. My bread fell on the floor on my way back to the seats. I would have scooped it up and eaten it anyway, but there were many people around who observed me drop the bread, and for some reason I felt embarrassed to let them see me scoop my bread off the ground. These are my people, now. I shouldn’t alienate myself so quickly.

K., a vegetarian, looked slightly nauseated as I picked at my chicken breast and eat the potato salad with my fingers. I ate quickly.

With the A’s taking such a beating, I spent some time in the hallways around the stadium. This seems to be where the real action is—the beer drinking, cell-phone chatting, line-standing. Oh, and the shopping. There’s a store filled with A’s gear and the place was packed with fans picking through jackets and bobble heads and so forth. I don’t think I’m ready to be an A’s consumer yet. At least they should have to win a game before I plunk down the big money for a satin jacket. I predict I will own such a jacket before the season ends.

A gang of young A’s fans harassed an older, drunk man who was wearing Giants garb. It’s his fault. Who comes to an A’s game in Giant’s gear? I take the side of the abusive kids. Does this mean I’m a fan?

I ordered cracker jacks for $3, but it comes in a bag. “Where’s the box,” I said. The young man behind the glass looked at me as if I was insane. I said, “Tell me I’m not crazy, there used to be a box, right?” An older woman behind the counter, a supervisor, stepped in and reported in a stern voice that yes, there used to be a box. I asked her if there was still a prize. She said she thought so, but if there wasn’t, I couldn’t get a refund. I said thanks but no thanks.

The bathroom stunk of urine, but it was very festive. The troughs in which one must pee apparently are the place to chat about the upcoming season. I don’t like to chat while I’m peeing, so I just listened. Not that I have anything to say anyway. Again and again I heard things like “it’s a long season” or “it’s only one game” or “we only play the Yankees nine times.” These were fans, I’m sure. They hope in the face of no reason to hope.

By the time I returned to our seats the Yankees had scored three more runs.

In the fifth inning it started to drizzle. K and I looked up and the drops were falling into us, lit by the floodlights. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, like little lemon drops falling out of the sky. I followed individual drops until they smacked me in the face. The whole miserable experience now seemed worth every penny, the long hike in, the money for the food. It was an omen. Don’t give up. Come back.

We left after the score became unbearable and walked to the car.

I’m hooked. I’m nowhere near being a fan. I need to learn all the names and figure out what all the stats mean and become less embarrassed to use the lingo. But I loved being there, the diversity, the caring. I loved it. I will return tomorrow for more Yankees abuse. I may well yell “Yankees suck,” and who knows, maybe they will. Anything’s possible in baseball.