I don't have a favorite team (except whatever team David is playing on at the time) and I don't know hoot about stats or averages or records. I just love the game. I love going to whatever park or diamond it is and watching - really watching - the game.
And I root for both teams. This gets me very odd stares sometimes and, when David was playing, reminders of just whose team I was 'on'.... until my friends told the remind-or that 'she roots for everyone'...and I did.
I love the hot dogs and the beer, even if it isn't (I just typed 'sin't' and thought that funny because typos are just psychological slips, in my viewpoint) on my diet at any moment.
I love baseball rain or shine, blistering or chilly. I don't mind waiting for the game to start if it has been called off. I want to stay to the bloody end, even if the score is completely lop-sided. I just love being there.
I don't know why, really. Maybe it is the pace that the game is played. More 'real time' instead of the hectic pace of everything else. Maybe it is the dreams of the players on the field.... dreams that may just be starting, or years of dreaming being realized. I love the mythology and the story-telling in general.
Maybe it is remembering 8-year-old Nick in the outfield picking dandelions and hearing all the parents yelling for him to 'look up, Nick!'. And he looks up just in time for the ball to fall squarely and solidly in his mitt. Maybe it is the memory of the conquer-the-world smile on his face mixed with the confusion of 'what just happened?!'
Maybe it is the memory of a distant father who sat on the front porch in nice weather or in his chair when it rained listening on the radio to the Cubs or the White Sox play distant games. Or the memory of watching my brothers and that father play backyard games that I was always too little to join.
Or maybe it is the sound of baseball being played in the park that backed up to our home.... late night games that I would listen to from the safety of my bed...... mixed with the sound of the carousel that still haunts me. The sounds of summer.
Then again, most likely it is the memory of playing catch with my then-3-year-old son and watching him play catch with his father as he got older (and when his throws became a little too wicked for me to catch without injury). And watching him in countless games through scorching Missouri summers and glorious falls. He pitched. Wonderfully. Most moms whose sons pitch will admit they die a little when their son is on the mound. Not me. When David pitched all was right with my world.
Yes, when I am watching baseball, all is right with my world.
Who wouldn't love that?