One eyed jacks and suicide queens aren’t the only wild cards this time of year. In baseball, you start depending on the wild card team you are rooting for to make the playoffs. For my team, that hasn’t worked out quite the way I wanted for the last twenty or thirty or forty years. But, as much as I hate losing, without getting too upset, you look to those who maintain hope during fruitless seasons of doom.

Baseball means nothing to many. To others, in different parts of the country or world, it means everything. People in third base countries are provided wealth by players signing contracts in the major league empire just to support their home country’s livelihood. For that, I try to appreciate the meaning.

My sister, Teresa, is a wild card and represents not just something, but everything about what I love about the game of baseball.. The pure fun, the nostalgia, and the simple desire to recognize greatness while simultaneously having fun.

It’s difficult maintaining a relationship with someone, for example, my sister, who lives in a State far away from us. She’s in Tennessee, I think, and I live on an island in the Pacific Northwest, I think. That’s a load of crap. Not the areas, but the excuses for not communicating. I hold myself fully responsible for this.

I’ll tell you what’s wonderful about this time of year. My sister and I have a love for baseball which connects us, and we don’t bitch and moan about who has called who, or have you talked to them, and how are the grand nephews or nieces we won’t know the names of until they graduate. We simply talk baseball, and it’s glorious. Teresa knows a hell of a lot more about the sport than I ever will.

Out of respect, she follows my team which has never won, nor been to a World Series. I follow her teams because, well, she’s my sister. That’s what’s beautiful. At this time of year, it’s fun, and it’s everywhere.

I don’t gamble anymore, but if I did, I’d bet onTeresa. She’s an ace in the hole.