Monday, June 12, 2006

Baseball is truly a contest of statistics because, statistically speaking, my love of the game lies somewhere between “not really” and “man what,” with a recurring average nestled deeply in the folds of yawning boredom. I enjoy watching tennis for its relentlessness, and I remember working concessions because football games were just plain kinetic, but baseball always seemed to involve lots of waiting.

Last week, however, I understood the excitement a little more. This education was aided in no small way by the fantastic view: row 12, right between the dugout and home plate, the Sox against the Tigers under an evening made for the sport. Let me temper this by saying I wanted to claw out my eyes and ears when, in no particular order, the one goddamn Queen song blared yet again, fireworks erupted out of Lord-knows-where because Lord-knows-who hit a home run, and the billboard displayed the player at bat in the tackiest way possible.

We’re talking plumes of fire and green, computery grids heralding each batter as if he were an agent provocateur in some crappy straight-to-video sci-fi movie, or maybe just an arch villain in Mega Man. But here’s what I learned. The pleasure is in the waiting. It’s in the tension wrought by two good teams, the pause before the crack of the bat, the ensuing roar of the stadium. You can feel everyone waiting for something to break.

Additionally, there’s the fear of catching a foul ball with your face after the Kiss Cam trains squarely on you, just as you drop your cinnamon churro onto Bruno’s bald pate in front of you. Hypothetically speaking, of course.