Keeping Score

Sometimes “Because I Enjoy It” is an acceptable answer

I usually take the train to downtown Seattle when I go to a Mariners game on my own. More and more fans pack the train as it heads further south, and by the time it arrives at the Stadium Station, it feels like a sea of Mariners fans spilling out of the train, turning left over the train tracks toward T-Mobile Park.

I usually enter through the center field entrance, head up the staircase, walk past the statue of legendary Mariners broadcaster Dave Niehaus, and stop for just a moment to look out over the field. Even after all these years, no matter how many games I attend or how frequently I attend them, that first glimpse of the bright green grass still gets me.

Sometimes I’ll take a slow lap around the ballpark before heading upstairs to my seat. My favorite place to watch a game isn’t down close to the field. It’s in the upper deck, sections 329 or 331 usually, in the first eight rows, just off either side of home plate. I always feel like I can see every corner of the field perfectly from those seats.

Then I take out my scorebook.

Before first pitch, I’ll examine the lineup for each squad and carefully write in each player with a pencil that, if I remembered, I sharpened before leaving the house. There’s something about looking at that blank scorecard that makes me even more excited for the game. Every square waiting to be filled with the details of every at-bat. In just a few short minutes, everyone there will watch a baseball game together, but this page will slowly become my own record of the evening.

Almost without fail, two conversations happen within minutes of me sitting down.

The first usually comes from someone a little older than me.

“I love seeing that,” they’ll say, nodding toward the scorebook. “My mother used to keep score while listening to games on the radio.”

Sometimes it’s a grandfather who used to do it, or a nutty, baseball-obsessed uncle. They all seem to have a story involving a scorebook.

Then, usually within a few innings, someone younger notices.

They look down at the scorebook for a second, puzzled at what they are looking at, before asking me the critical question:

“So...why are you keeping score?”

The question always makes me smile. Partly because of the puzzled look on their face. But mostly because I honestly don’t have a very good answer.

“I don’t really know,” I usually tell them.

And that’s the truth.

I don’t do it because I distrust the numbers we see up on the scoreboard. I don’t do it because there won’t be a record of what happened on the field once the game is over. Before I even get home, every pitch, every hit, every strikeout, and every defensive play will be available online with far more detail than what I write down throughout the game. I don’t even think it’s really about tradition. My dad taught me how to keep score, but he wasn’t someone who did it every single game we attended.

I just enjoy it.

Sure, there are little things I like about it. Keeping score makes me notice parts of the game I might otherwise miss. Midway through the game, I find myself peeking back at each hitter’s previous at-bat before they even step up to the plate. I can quickly glance back to see just how often the pitcher has taken a hitter to a 3-2 count, and just how many pitches the batter fouled off in their last at-bat.

More than anything, though, keeping score keeps me in the game. My phone stays in my pocket. Between pitches, instead of checking text messages or peeking at social media, I’m filling in another square in the book. For three hours, the game is the only thing demanding my attention.

Following baseball is my biggest hobby. I’m sure the people closest to me would call it an obsession.

But as I’ve thought about why I keep score, I’ve thought about a bigger question that isn’t about baseball at all. Somewhere in adulthood, it feels like we’ve convinced ourselves that every hobby needs to justify itself.

We exercise because it’s healthy. We read because it makes us smarter and more informed. We cook at home because it’s cheaper than eating out. Sometimes it seems as if the things we once did purely for enjoyment need to come with an explanation for why they’re productive.

Just like everyone else, I constantly find myself feeling as if I need to justify doing anything simply for pleasure. So when people ask me why I keep score, my instinct is to come up with some thoughtful answer for them, something that might justify to the world why I still enjoy making marks in a paper book. But honestly, any answer along those lines wouldn’t really be the truth.

As the game enters the final innings, the notes in that book make me smile when the Mariners are leading by a wide margin. And sometimes I look down at the page and sigh deeply after jotting down yet another “K” in the book (something Mariners fans are intimately familiar with).

Now, I’m well aware that every bit of this game has already been recorded somewhere else. By the time I get home, the recap in The Seattle Times will already be online, and MLB will have a nice, condensed highlight package, along with a full box score, ready for the world to see.

But none of those things are quite the same.

So when I think about why I still score the game whenever I go on my own, I actually think the answer is pretty simple.

Because I enjoy it.