Definitely Not A Date

I didn’t answer the phone that afternoon. Given all the blah-blah-blah and yadda-yadda I did for a living, I rarely answered when it rang. I left it for the machine, or my excellent assistant – my son.

“Mom, Rick Greenley’s on the phone.”

Surprising. He was married to my high school bud and I hadn’t spoken to either of them in a few years. At the ready for bad news I took the phone.

His friendly voice boomed. “Hi, how are you? Would you like to go to a baseball game?”

Huh? What was I missing? During the years out of touch my friend and he had separated and were divorcing. He knew I was widowed; I knew nothing.

My stomach lurched. Was he asking me out? It sounded like it.

“Are you asking me on a date? I can’t go on a date with you. You don’t date a friend’s ex. That's not cool.”

“Not a date. No. No date. But I can only hang out with my brother for so long and I remembered you like baseball. It’s a two-fer. I can get used to women again after swearing off for a year and a half. We see a game and catch up. C’mon. We can do this.”

It sounded suspiciously like a rationale for a covert date.

I put him off. I’d call him back. I couldn't decide. I hashed and rehashed the situation with anyone who'd listen. My dad wanted out. “I did this with you when you were 16. I’m way too old for it now.”

Bestie was trying to figure out how to be in the dating world herself, fresh off a divorce. I didn’t know if I should trust her advice. “He sounds nice. You like baseball. He likes baseball. What can it hurt? Go to the game with Mr. Baseball. ”

Now he had a nickname.

I called my therapist. “What do you think?”

 “I think it’s very hard to do something nice for you. Go.”

Days passed and Rick called back still waiting for an answer. “We can have pizza afterwards. OK?”

Oh, crap. Pizza was definitely date territory. I polled everyone again.

They were sick of me. Even the therapist told me I could call him about anything but no more discussions about a ballgame and pizza.

I said yes. I went to the game. We laughed. We watched the Giants lose. We got a cool souvenir pin commemorating the 50^th anniversary of Jackie Robinson integrating the bigs. We ate pizza. He talked about his failed marriage. More than once.

I was sad for him and his wife. I was relieved for me. It couldn’t possibly be a date because who does that on a date. A guy NOT on a date. A guy healing from having been jilted.

I chided him in an attempt to lighten his mood and sprinkle some optimism.

“You’ll marry again. One day the right person will come along. Good first step getting out of your apartment.”

“You’re kidding, right? I’ll commit murder before I’ll commit matrimony. Been there. Done that. I’d have the tee-shirt but I’m too broke to get one.”

“I saw you when you were married. You were a happy guy. The ultimate marrying man. It’ll happen.”

“No way,” said Mr. Baseball confident in his position.

I was more confident. He was all about family. I bet him $50. “Cash on the barrelhead. Within three years you’ll be married.”

Later I told Bestie. I was safe. It really wasn’t a date and I was happy to have connected with an old friend.

Rick’s folks lived nearby and when he’d make the three-hour trek south to visit them, he’d check in on Christopher and me. He was a pal. A guardian angel. A prankster. A smile to look forward to. An eggs benedict-making machine. He brought comic relief. He was a little too loud. He was a breath of fresh air.

And he was good for his bets. He mailed a $50 check with a note. “I’ve decided to ‘cover our bet'. If ever appropriate, fill in the date and cash.”

The memo section on the check read, “Ain’t gonna happen.”

Months went by and we chatted by phone and wrote notes about work and life, our parents and kids. We both began dating. But not each other.

He was an excellent human reference guide. “When a guy does __________, what’s that mean?”

Every woman should have a friend like that. Helps weed out riff-raff and cracks man-code when necessary. John Gray was churning out his then new Mars and Venus books, I’d read them and give Mr. Baseball a call. “Is that really true?”

“Yup. For sure it is.”

I had a lot to think about in my not-so-brave new world of dating. Mr. Baseball was my edge.

You all know where this goes, right?

We debriefed our dates with each other, laughed at our clumsiness, including when we first kissed someone new after our long marriages. We moved on to discussing our other firsts, too, if you know whaddimean…

In the end, the debriefs were more fun than the dates and we changed the terms of our relationship. From friendship and “hanging” to romance. He convinced me with a mischievous grin, “I’m not saying we stop being friends. We just figure out what more we could be. You’ll like it. Dating is a lot like hanging. You just put on lipstick once in a while.”

Who can resist a line like that, right?

It all started with our not-a-date, no-absolutely-not-a-date baseball game, 20 years ago today. The souvenir pin lives on my baseball cap. And I collected the $50. In cash. So I could save the bet-covering check. It’s in a frame and like every good wife I've been known to say, “I told you so.” 

I just didn’t know he’d be marrying me.

I couldn’t love you any more, Mr. Baseball. Happy 20 years since our first not-a-date. (Nope. Definitely not a date.)