I admit it freely: I despise baseball. It is an excruciatingly boring game, whether you watch it in person or on the TV. But at least the TV version allows for other distractions, like laptops or the Twilight series. (Yes, I too started reading this vampire adolescent trash this weekend for seemingly inexplicable reasons that are no doubt linked to the efficacy of social media to serve as an unwitting marketing vehicle. In short, I blame Sweetney, Mamalogues, Whoorl, Amalah et al. for their mentioning it–because even whilst I scoffed at them for reading it, I knew someday I, too, would succumb to the draw of the vampire trash novel. The same thing happened back in 88 with V.C. Andrews’ Flowers in the Attic, and of course the
crack cocaine in print form Harry Potter series.)
Wait, I’m supposed to be writing about baseball.
OK, so Mr. Right-Click is a big sports fan, including baseball even though I have pointed out to him that it is really kind of a stretch to call baseball a sport, since there are guys playing on these teams who are so overweight that I could easily beat them in a footrace. I have attended many basketball games with Mr. Right-Click, since I am an avid basketball fan (though no doubt not so enthusiastic as Sarah “Barracuda” Palin), and Mini accompanied us to a few of the Laker playoff games this past season. But I never would go see baseball with Mr. Right-Click, not after the horror of my youth spent watching the San Diego Padres play, with my grandparents, Noni (cigarettes and “how’s-the-diet-coming?”) and Dodi (undiagnosed Aspbergers and ex-military engineer).
On visits to my grandparents’ house during the summer or on school vacations, we would go to what is now Qualcomm stadium, but was at that time called Jack Murphy Stadium, in San Diego. And we would sit for hours watching this dumb game in which nothing ever happens, and my grandfather would be listening to the radio broadcast at the same time as he watched the game, the better to ensure the accuracy of the score he kept in a special scorebook he brought with him to every game. My grandfather’s scorebook contained the stats for all of the home games, because they had season tickets, and each page was as neat as the one before it, and undoubtedly as unassailably accurate. He would teach me how to keep score, and I would be mildly distracted by the process of recording all of the stats, because at least it allowed me to think about something else than my intense desire to leave, right then, from this stupid stadium.
But, even at ten, I was thinking, “Seriously? Dude? They have people for this. See that thing up there with all the lights and shit–that’s a scoreboard.” And then I’d go get yet another churro.
But, like I said, Mr. Right-Click has wanted to take Mini to a baseball game for, well, about 17 months now. And I kept saying, fine, take him. But I’m not going. And he made arrangements to go with my father and his wife, and Mini–so at least there are three laps to pass Mini back and forth, I guess–and he even bought me a ticket, even though I kept saying, “No” every single time he asked me if I would go.
So today, they went. And Mr. Right-Click still asked me this morning if I would go. And I said no. I did help him pack up the diaper bag, and I put Mini’s socks and shoes on and gave them both kisses before they left. And I even miss them right now, since they’ve been gone about four hours–that’s a long time to be away from my boys.
On the other hand, the quiet.