It’s Opening Day for baseball! Baseball baseball baseball baseball baseball…
I love baseball. I have no especially strong allegiance to one particular team, except for the Detroit Tigers and the Toledo Mud Hens. I root for several teams throughout the season and across the league, but mostly East Coast teams, except the Yankees, because fuck those guys. I tend to root for Ohio’s teams (the Indians more than the Reds), the Red Sox, STL’s Cards, and the Cubbies, because they need all the support they can get, those poor bastards. I don’t know why I love baseball so much. I JUST DO.
I think some of it, though, has to do with going to the Mud Hens games as a youth, and also all the times we went to my dad’s company softball tournaments. Those were like family reunions with people we only got to see maybe twice a year, so I think I associate baseball (and softball by default) with the warm-n-fuzzies. But there is no feeling that’s anything like walking into a stadium for the first time a season, and hearing the crack of the bat and the roar that follows.
I’m also a straight-up stadium hot dog junkie. I once ate five hot dogs during one game AND LIVED TO TELL ABOUT IT. Bow down to me.
But there’s something about baseball that’s both quiet and loud, and I guess it’s still something of a “gentleman’s game” or whatever, although I don’t subscribe to that very much. Have you ever gone to an old-timey baseball game, speaking of? You should, if you get the chance. It’s so polite. Also, mustaches. Very classy. Plus, a lot of the players have names like “Steamroller” and “Biscuit Pants” and “Catfish” and “Sunny Jim.” Every guy at the old-timey baseball game looks a lot like this:
“I bet you’re wondering why they call me Biscuit Pants, eh ladies?”
So, anyway, the point is, I really love baseball. That’s…that’s all. File this one under “anticlimactic,” am I right?