Eleanor also felt that the “safe” signal looked like it should mean “strike,” and deeply disapproved of the concept of a checked swing (“No wonder men these days don’t understand commitment,” she sniffed). But she was a scrupulous pupil, so much so that I exhausted myself cuing up illustrative ESPN highlights to answer her questions, and nearly went hoarse the day we discussed the designated-hitter rule. A few times, I had to call in sick, just so I could plow through the piles of trip-related homework Bea had assigned. My dedication was paying off, though: Eleanor was easily more fluent in the sport than Nick.

Marta had scoffed at all this, going so far as to loudly fake snore while I tried to explain what a balk is. But now, as we watched the Cubs’ opening game on the DVR, she sat in her usual corner tweeting GIFs of Jake Arrieta at the Los Angeles Angels Twitter account and hurling opinions like fastballs at the TV.

“You may suck it, young man!” she crowed at Mike Trout, who looked aggrieved after striking out.

So maybe I wasn’t the best influence. But it was mutually satisfying: Eleanor got to cross items off her Death-Cheating Fun List, and I got my own Cubs fan club inside the walls of Buckingham Palace. It tickled me knowing that the swirl of tourists and taxi drivers clogging the Mall imagined something far more refined happening inside.

“I don’t know what Trout was thinking swinging at that,” Eleanor said, licking some salt off the rim of her margarita before taking a sip. That, at least, had been an easy item to check off, and it had been a huge hit—save for one hiccup when an errant Applebee’s commercial led to her demanding a mangorita, and the kitchen couldn’t hunt down decent fruit.

I patted myself on the back theatrically. “All this and it’s only opening day. You’ll be a salty, heartbroken veteran in no time. I am a brilliant teacher.”

“No, I am a brilliant student,” Eleanor boasted. “Always was.”

“Yes, I’ve read all about it,” I told her. “Although Georgina seemed to think you were mostly applying yourself because you had the hots for Henry Vane.”

Eleanor shot me a stern look. “I did not have the hots for anyone. I was a child.”

“You know what I mean,” I said. “Lots of little girls get crushes. I had a huge one on Derek Jeter.”

“What’s a Derek Jeter?” Marta asked.