Bide One's Time

Whoever heard of a half-hearted fan, one who lasts for half a season and then moves on to the next sport. That's akin to eating a peach, swishing the juice around and then placing the half- eaten peach on the highboy and selecting a nectarine. Then after two bites of that smooth skinned member of the Rosaceae family leaving it on the armoire and sampling a papaya. That's akin to the Medieval assayer whose livelihood is measured in small bites.

Molly who spent her days in the library researching the deadly Larkspur and Meadow Saffron collected fruit pits. She harbored a desire to work as a treeplanter, but lived in the city. So she planted pits in mason jars and waited. Waiting is an arduous task. The real fan waits all season for the playoffs, for a decal, a shirt attesting to the accomplishment, a jacket, rain pants with the team logo, another hat, or a shot glass with the team name painted on the outside. It will wash off in the dishwasher. Real fans even wait for next year.