Just like apple pie, Budweiser and bald eagles, baseball has been sewn into the fabric of America and proudly defined as its greatest pastime.
Nothing says summer like sitting in the hot sun of an open air stadium steadily drinking beer and devouring salty snacks. The smell of fresh cut grass mingling with the smokey scent of grilled meats while the soothing voice of an announcer is drowned out by heckling frat boys and the shrill screams of a food vendor, “IIIICE CREEEEAM”.
The nostalgic sights, sounds and smells of a ballpark are enough to evoke any fans’ fond memories, even enough to make a grown man whip out his ol’ mitt and wear it in public in hopes of catching a foul ball.
The child in me says bring on the blast from the past. You can find her flagging down the cotton candy vendor or in the fan shop buying stuffed mascots, mini bats and other memorabilia I don’t need. The adult me whistles a different tune. She’s matured into more of the, “sign me up for any excuse to talk trash, excessively snack and see how many beers I can consume before they stop serving” type of gal.
Baseball is more than a pastime, it’s a tradition, a key part of our country’s culture that some would consider an act of treason not to enjoy. No matter the weather, venue or level of play, I can always appreciate a baseball game.
If you have a tough time getting into it, simply add alcohol, it makes everything more amusing.