You might have noticed one topic that hasn’t been written about in this place: sports.
That’s because I am uncomfortable writing about things I don’t know anything about. When the topic comes up in conversation, I can usually get by with an observational nod or hmmm, then I excuse myself to the ladies room. My lack of knowledge makes me feel like an outsider and my fear of embarrassment makes me want to run for my life before being asked my opinion on something.
Last night I went to a Washington Nationals game.
My husband rushed to buy tickets for this particular game on a hot rumor that some person named Strasburg was going to be pitching and that the game would sell out within hours. My husband’s instinct was right. The game sold out before the end of the day we ordered our tickets.
I don’t know a Strasburg from a Stradivarius but I did know that this rumor was akin to hearing that a rock and roll concert coming to town would feature a surprise appearance by Elvis (I was going to say John Lennon but John Lennon is dead).
Anyway, this Strasburg person didn’t pitch before the crowd of nearly 34,000 fans in the Nats’ shiny new stadium last night. Rumor has it that he’ll be there later this week.
That’s OK. I still got what I go to baseball games for—a hot dog and ice cream.
I do enjoy listening to people talk about baseball. I am impressed when they can throw around stats that they carry around in their heads and I confess I find it exciting to hear about a diving catch, a clutch hit or a golden sombrero. What, that’s not a tequila drink?
The problem is, with the exception of the hot dog and ice cream, I find watching baseball exceptionally boring. The skill and nuance are lost on me. I don’t see the diving catch even when it happens right in front of me, which, according to this morning’s paper, it did.
Another thing. I don’t know if it’s Washington fans in general or just a coincidence that I’ve seen this at Nationals and Redskins games alike, but I always seem to be seated among loud, obnoxious twenty-something males, full of Budweiser, who yell insults at the opposing team. Again, it might just be coincidence. It’s just that I haven’t seen it in the baseball stadium in the next city over.
So let’s bring out Strasburg already and Go Nats.
Word Nymph returns Monday. Tomorrow she’ll still be taking flak from her family for this piece.
2 responses to “Root root root”
I have been to many ball games in the “next city over,” and am always amazed at how rude drunk baseball fans can be. Having said that, I am a Yankees fan, and when I go to an Orioles games, I am dressed as a Yankees fan, so maybe I deserve it. My husband NEVER dresses as a Yankees fan out of respect for the home team, even though he is the biggest fan in the family. At one particular game, he was leaving Camden Yards holding the hand of our 10 year-old son. Our son was wearing a Yankees cap, and the great people of the “next city over” started yelling at the top of their lungs “F*** THE YANKEES!” We were disgusted.
Oooh, sorry. I guess no city is free of jerks.