Today the youngest lad will be playing in his league’s baseball tournament. I’m no sports fan, but baseball is the greatest team sport in the world, and I can enjoy it in limited quantities; still, I wouldn’t bother with it if my own blood wasn’t playing. I have enjoyed watching the occasional Major league game. Occasional? I should say rare, certainly less than a dozen in my entire life. I don’t think I’ve watched any all the way through, with the exception of the one Twins game I attended back in the late eighties.
Watching youth baseball presents some additional challenges. Seeing an outfielder miss a fly sent his way as if by GPS, not because he wasn’t quick enough or coordinated enough, but because he was distracted by something in the grass at his feet, is a minor difficulty. As with most sports, I think, tolerating the fans is the most trying aspect of the game. Don’t get me wrong, these aren’t hockey or soccer fans. There is rarely any cussing, no one gets killed, and there are no satanic horns blowing. In fact, the spectators are almost always reasonably well-behaved.
But seriously — who yells “Good eye! Good eye!” to boys who refrain from swinging at balls that sail three feet over their heads? The genius sitting directly behind me, that’s who.
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