My adoptive team, the Texas Rangers, started out well this season, winning three games from the Cleveland Indians. The Rangers then went to Detroit to play my beloved Tigers. I was pleased that the Tigers won all three games, but displeased that the Rangers lost. All of a sudden, it looked like a break-even team. The Rangers came back home and promptly lost two games to the Baltimore Orioles, making their record 3-5. Then, yesterday, the Rangers exploded, scoring 19 runs. Here is a box score for the ages. Ian Kinsler, who would have won the American League Most Valuable Player Award a year ago had he not been injured (his numbers were as good as, or better than, those of Dustin Pedroia, who won the award), went six for six and hit for the cycle. He scored five runs and drove in four. I have never seen a more aggressive hitter. Kinsler crushes everything he's thrown. The only way to get him out is to induce him to hit the ball at someone. Marlon Byrd got five hits of his own, but his performance was overshadowed by that of Kinsler. If only the Rangers had decent pitching. They never have, and sometimes I think they never will.
Addendum: Yes, the word is "adoptive," not "adopted." If I were adopted, those who adopted me would be my adoptive parents (as opposed to my biological parents). I would be their adopted child (as opposed to their biological child). The reason I use "adoptive" rather than "adopted" is that I didn't choose the Rangers; they chose me. I no more chose the Rangers than adopted children choose their adoptive parents.
Addendum 2: It occurs to me that baseball is a realm of fate rather than choice. You don't choose your baseball team. You find yourself with one—either because you were born in a particular place (I was born in Michigan, which is the land of the Tigers) or because you happen to live in a particular place (I live in Fort Worth, which is the land of the Rangers). Fate goes against the modern grain, which celebrates—and even demands—choice. But choice is not in the cards in this realm. You have the team or teams you're stuck with. All you can do is hope for the best, which is why we have the expression "living and dying with one's team." I hate people (such as my friend Hawk) who think they can choose a team. The very idea is laughable. You don't choose your parents, your race, your ethnicity, your (original) nationality, or your team. You're landed with these things. This is not to say that all loyalties are unchosen, but some are.
Addendum 3: Since I have two teams, and they're in the same league, there are times when I can't root for either of them. It's like watching two of your children play tennis against one another. No matter what happens, you're going to be both happy and sad. I watched the games between my beloved Tigers and my adoptive Rangers, but it was without passion.
Addendum 4: Here is Ian, after the game:
Ian is the son of a prison warden.
Keith Burgess-Jackson, J.D., Ph.D. 
