IN THE RELIGION OF BASEBALL, mine is a mixed-faith marriage. My husband is a diehard member of Red Sox Nation, and I am a dyed-in-the-wool-pin-stripes fan of the New York Yankees. And so we are a blended family, albeit one that tends to sit on opposite sides of the room for six months each year.

Like all interfaith couples, we've had to make room for each other's traditions. Ground rules have helped. My husband, for instance, is prohibited from scribbling profanities across my signed Derek Jeter ball. Likewise, I understand that if I wear my Mariano Rivera jersey into the bleachers at Fenway, I'm on my own.

For 10 seasons of marriage ' 192 regular series games, three ALCS, and three world championships ' we've made it. But in the last few years something has grown between us, threatening the uneasy stability of our alliance. Of course, I'm talking about our very own bambino.

He arrived just in time for the season opener in 2007. When the Sox and Yankees played each other a few weeks later, we watched our first game as a family, with the bambino sacked out across my lap. At first, we were too tired for trash-talking, too baby-drunk to engage in any rivalry. As new parents, we were finally playing on the same team. Until the gift boxes arrived. Red Sox bibs and burp cloths. Yankees sippy cups. Stroller blankets. We laughed as the swag piled up around the apartment. We put a Red Sox booty on his left foot, a Yankees booty on his right, and admired our tiny mixed-up baseball fan.