Nobody gives a damn about your fantasy team!
Honest answer: Yes, and I find more pleasure as I realize I won't be around forever to complain about how bad the Tigers are.
1. It's a legacy. My grandfather has been gone since the week before the 1976 season started (he never saw the magic of Mark Fidrych's rookie season), so in essence, it's my lifelong bond with the man who took me to my first game and cultivated my interest in baseball. I am the last Michigander in the family, and none of my siblings are afflicted. So the generational connection dies with me.
2. I love the game. Like Rogers Hornsby, I wait all winter for the crack of the bat. I wish I could have played it better as a kid. The neighborhood kids would play pickup games every night, and in between I'd throw the ball with my best friend until my arm would ache, then do it all again the next day. Pulling on a Little League uniform with Grace's Food Store, Optimist Club, Kaiser Sand and Gravel or Gemco meant you were dreaming the dream every other kid in the country (and now around the world) had at the same time. The heroes of my youth are dying off, and I'm older than most of the managers, but the game keeps my mind young.
3. There's a beauty in the details. Even if the Tigers stink, I love to see a well-played game (and the pitch clock has certainly improved those odds). It isn't February without knowing young men have returned to Lakeland and Dunedin and Bradenton to play a timeless kid's game. I could cite Giamatti or Kinsella, but there's something reassuring about having baseball fill your days and nights from March until October. Having the radio tuned to the broadcast (even if it's streaming on a computer) is the sound of spring and summer to me.
4. There's math involved. I've always been fascinated by the fact that even though the game has changed signifcantly since my grandfather's time, you can still read someone's scorebook from one hundred years ago and visualize the game as it unfolded that day. I learned to calculate winning percentages, batting averages and ERAs by hand, and kept my own records from the hundreds of Cadaco All-Star Baseball games I played (and did my own play-by-play). I go to games and keep score because it's second nature.
5. Miracles do happen. Just like in "Damn Yankees," you gotta have heart and, most of all, hope. I've witnessed the magic of 1968 and 1984 and just want one more chance to experience a season where everything falls into place and you get to live and die with every game, every at-bat, every pitch in a pennant race and World Series. The Yankees don't win every pennant (even though it seems that way) and baseball is just random enough that fluky things happen. Can the Pirates keep up this pace for 162 games? Not likely, but the Miracle Braves and 1951 Giants prove that it's possible. If I make it to 80, that's 15 more seasons where the Tigers might actually finish above .500 again.
