When I dated my now-husband in high school, I tagged along to all of his little league/legion ball baseball games.   After all, that is what a teenager-in-love does.  However, I am not a fan of baseball.  Never was.  (Other than how incredibly handsome my husband looked in that uniform…but that’s not for a public blog 😊.)  I do like sports though.   Fast moving, full of activity sports like soccer, basketball, and MMA.   Baseball – to me – is boring.

My husband and his son have a goal to visit every ballpark in the U.S.  It is something my husband had wanted even in high school.  For whatever reason life stepped in and here he is many years later and his goal is hardly even started.   That is unacceptable.   My SOMH (son of my heart) will soon be out of school and on his own in college and my husband isn’t getting any younger.   Being a supportive wife πŸ˜‹, I convince my husband to make plans to go see my dad over his birthday and hey…while we are there, there are two ball fields to visit.   As luck would have it, both Illinois teams are home that weekend.   Two ball fields off the list.  Thus started the “lets do this” attitude.

Before we can throw ourselves into this I believe my husband must first sway me to actually like the sport.  So off we go to the closest MLB field – Camden Yards.   This was not their first time of course and their excitement made my social anxiety in a crowd seem worth the risk.  

Did I mention I don’t like baseball?

But, I have to admit the atmosphere of being at the ballpark was much more fun than watching it on television.   I still don’t understand a lot about the game.   The boys speak in a strange language that involves numbers.  Despite the pitcher throwing a ball somewhere between 75-95 miles per hour, and the fact we are sitting ~90 feet from the pitcher’s mound, they can tell if it was a change-up, fastball, slider, etc., but these same boys can’t find the mayo on the second shelf of the fridge. 

Also a ball hit by Machado (who I have lovingly dubbed “Machiato”) came directly at us.   Fortunately, my husband “protected” me by shoving me out of the way and diving over a row of seats to get the ball.  Quite agile for an old man…LOL.

Since this weekend was a long one, we decided to continue knocking out parks with a drive to Cleveland then Detroit.  We first visited the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame and took a beautiful walk around the shores of Lake Erie taking pictures of all the sports arenas.  Then it came time for the game.

It was at this game I learned that these men in the field are given a number when marked in the score book and felt very pleased that I could accurately identify a F8 and 4-3.  I would have to say it was here that I had my greatest lesson in the technicalities of the sport.  I decided to cheer for the home team, but it wasn’t until about the 7th inning that I could remember which team was which.  I guess I just cheered for the good plays…who am I kidding…any play.

My SOMH decided he would risk life and limb and wear his Orioles gear and was not too pleased when the Ketchup Weiner Hotdog Mascot person took his cap.  (He gave it back of course.)

The next morning we drove to Detroit.  Detroit is not a very pretty city, in my opinion.  Very dingy, but there is so much history there.  Anyway, here we had seats in the outfield box and I was led to believe I would receive another trampling should a ball come in our direction.  Fortunately (for me) it did not, but I would have like to see the SOMH get another ball.   This game didn’t score the same way (meaning they didn’t post numbers on the scoreboard) but my husband tested me nonetheless.  I passed, when he could hear me over the roar of the fans and the life story of the chatty sisters behind us.   (I do hope she survives her divorce, that the dog does s**t in the house, she gets her watch sized and finds the distressed gold bracelet she wants.). It was also at this game that my husband saw the chance of ever having grandchildren pass by as the SOMH had to sit next to a toddler eating cotton candy.  

My husband pointed out to me here that one player, Miguel (or…”Miggy” as the drunk sisters liked to scream out) Caberra was the “best hitter in the league”.  By his 4th at bat he hadn’t done much to prove it.   And I said as much to my husband.  “Miggy” clearly heard me because he managed to hit a homerun with is first swing.   Seems everyone wanted to shut me up.

We then drove the 7 hours home…straight through.  

So it would seem the boys are well on their way to visiting to all ballparks.