Oh baseball, the all-American pastime. A sport filled with gorgeous men who openly play with their balls and spit on the ground without shame. Yes baseball, the best sport to devour a hot dog while attending a game.

Why? Because it’s baseball.

When I took Karina the Russian to her first baseball game, “why” questions were in abundance. And by first baseball game, I mean, like EVER.

In our typical fashion, the adventure began with the journey. We decided to take the train, A.K.A. TRAX, to avoid having to deal with parking.

I guess we must not have been paying close enough attention to our stop because when we heard the robotic woman’s voice say “Ballpark,” we exited the train.

THREE MILES TOO EARLY!

But of course we didn’t think to wait and get on another train, no, we decide to walk in our heels the rest of the way.

Honestly, I have a new found respect for hookers.

When we finally showed up at the ballpark, sweaty and with bloody feet, we had no problem finding our way to my companies catered suite. After grabbing some much needed beverages we found our seats and settled in to watch the game.

“Why are there so many gray people out there and no white guys?”

“That’s because the gray team is playing defense. They white guys, our team, is up to bat.”

“Why are some of the guys so far out there? Do they not like them?”

“They play a position called outfield, if a ball gets hit far it’s their job to catch the ball.”

“Why isn’t that guy hitting the ball? SWING THE WOOD THING LAZY ASS!”

“You only swing on the good throws, the rest are called ‘balls’ and you don’t try to hit those.”

“Balls. Base-ball. Basket-ball. These men are all about their balls! And why is there a big 420 painted on the fence over there? Is this a stoner game?”

“No, that’s the length of the field. I guess every field is different or something.”

“Hmm… why is that guy dressed in black bent over like that? He looks like he needs to take a dump.”

“That’s an umpire, he helps judge the game.”

“How do you know so much about this confusing-ass game? You don’t even like sports! You are wearing heels for god’s sake!”

That one stumped me for a minute to be honest. I think baseball is forced on us from childhood. I remember in P.E. having to play baseball and being taught all the rules. I wasn’t any good and I didn’t particularly like it, but I developed a level of respect for it.  I remember my parents once taking me to a semi-professional game where I asked my dad a million of questions just like Karina asked me.

Well… maybe not just like she was asking me. I’m pretty sure I never asked my dad if baseball was a game for stoners.

After the game ended, we were able to sweet talk my co-workers brother to driving us to our cars. Thank goodness too, because by this point in the night it was all dark and not hitchhiker friendly, plus there was no way in hell either of us could have walked the come to find out, HALF block to the correct train stop.

Yes, baseball…

It can be so painful.

And confusing.

But only if you are Russian.

Or possibly a stoner.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

PS – you would have died to see the priceless look on Karina’s face when we all stood up to sing “Take me out to the ballpark.”

Summer K to the R stories, Out and About, Story Time