On baseball

What is it about baseball, or base-e-bol as The Baby calls it? (He says it almost like Chico Escuela‘s “beisbol been berry berry good to me,” which Sammy Sosa would sometimes pay homage to in 1998.)

What is it about a late afternoon game under sunny skies and lightly breezy temperatures, about sharing a game with two people you adore and love, about a guy walking around with cold beer to sell you, about hot dogs, about soft-serve ice cream in miniature helmets, about no matter how much The Game pisses you off because of steroids, big-ego players and (shamefully) most of my fellow Yankee fans (not the Bleacher Creatures of the ’90s before alcohol was banned in Sections 37 to 43, but the loud-mouth and obnoxious ones lugging along in SUVs with Yankee decals on their trailer hitches; perhaps many Red Sox and Mets fans feel the same way about their cohorts)?

Despite all that, what is it that makes the game still great to see live, even if your toddler can only sit still in awe for an inning and-a-half? Is it the clichéd pastoral nature of a game that for the formative years of its inception was really a city game¹? Is it summer evenings under a waning sun? Is it the pure simplicity and complexity of the game, the only major team sport without a clock?

Whatever, we took The Baby to his first real game last weekend. He can’t stop talking about it. Though this was his favorite part: