The heart wants what it wants.
I went to a baseball game recently and sat next to my girlfriend’s eight-year-old nephew. We’ve been to a few games together, but something made me ask a question I’d never asked before.
“So who’s your favorite player?”
I was surprised to hear that he didn’t have one. I was intrigued because I’ve always had one—sometimes it’s a lifelong love (Jim Rice), sometimes it’s a favorite of a particular season. (Shout out to my current favorite, Triston Casas, as he begins healing from his devastating ruptured patellar tendon.)
I got to wondering: how does a favorite player get chosen? I suppose there are infinite reasons why lightning may strike: player popularity, family legacy, outright skills, a lucky number, maybe some totally random yet special quality.
I felt like my friend needed a favorite player and hoped he might pick one that day. And if he did, I was super curious to see how he would go about it. I decided to approach this as a case study. The home team was the Mariners, so that part was a given—I had no illusions of discovering another Kristian Campbell fan. As the Mariners went through the batting order, I casually announced each player and observed the results.
Our family group was well represented with Cal Raleigh jerseys. I pointed to mine and noted that he hits a lot of home runs. Nothing.
“Rowdy, that’s kind of a fun name.” This barely got a “Hm” in response.
As we walked around the stadium, I pointed to a life-size cutout of Julio Rodriguez that people take photos with. When Randy Arozarena threw a ball to a fan not too far away from us, I noted it. He didn’t seem to care.
Nathan Eovaldi happened to be pitching for the visiting Texas Rangers, so I threw that out there too, just in case. I’m a big Eovaldi fan myself, and I thought, hey you never know. Plus, why not get in the back door of Red Sox fandom, if that just so happened to catch on?
Red Sox Nation, you can’t say I didn’t try.
We eventually hit on it. Batter Jorge Polanco—who’s been hot for the Mariners, even subsequently winning AL Player of the Week honors—was diligently running out a chopper along the first baseline. Seemingly an easy out, except the fielder was a bit lazy in trying to apply the tag. Polanco juked out of the way and kept running to first. Safe! It was improbable as hell and also one of the coolest things I’ve seen in a long time.
My eight-year-old friend sat up and said decisively, “That’s him. Number 7.”
It was replayed again and again in the stands—because the play was awesome, but also because it went under review—but my friend didn’t need to see it twice to know there was something special there.
His birthday is this week, and he’s getting a Polanco shirt and a baseball card, both of which he requested. He told me he’s going to wear the card in a lanyard around his neck. This is how it begins.
I’ve been surveying other baseball fans on how they chose their favorite players. This is obviously not comprehensive, but two of my favorite responses were:
- Wade Boggs! Surprisingly, this was shared by a native Washingtonian. The reason? She liked his mustache and also thought Ken Griffey, Jr. was getting too much press.
- Wally Joyner. An interesting choice. One that remains a mystery and proves how the heart wants what it wants. My coworker wonders if he’d gotten a hold of his rookie card and liked looking at it?
- I don’t remember how I landed on Jim Rice. Maybe my discerning eye knew he was destined for the Hall of Fame. Or, à la Taylor Swift, his uniform number had extra meaning for me because it’s my birthdate. His devastating good looks? It’s true that I drew pictures of him to show my dad’s friend Jim.
Recently, my girlfriend and I went shopping for cars. For some reason, the floor manager mentioned his love of baseball to my girlfriend, showed her a huge box of baseball cards, and encouraged her to go through it while they waited for me. Somehow, one of the first cards she pulled out of the box was Jim Rice.
What are the odds—in 2025, in Seattle, from a salesman who is a Mariners fan and wasn’t even alive during Jim’s playing career?
When I walked into the office, the card was laying on the desk, right in front of my empty chair. He told me I could have it. I was dumbstruck.
You mean I can leave here with the car and this Jim Rice card? — Me, not believing my damn luck
This might lead one to think it’s all destiny. Preordained. Written in the stars.
I don’t know the answer, but I do know there’s some kind of magic to it. Choosing a favorite player is not a science, no matter what the stats say. It’s an art.