First thing he said after the top half of the first inning: “Man, this is boring.”
Shrinking down in my seat, I tried to ignore him. He was in his form of the innocent twelve-year old, in his “ten-fidgets-a-minute” mode.
“Not as boring as what you call ‘sock-her’ though,” he said.
“It’s ‘soccer,’” I said, “and people all over the world don’t find it boring.”
“People all over your world think war is heroic,” he said. “That’s why we find you so fascinating.”
He finished his hot dog. “May I have another?”
“They cost a lot,” I said. “Just sit back and enjoy the game.”
“Why do they get so many chances to hit that spherical object? The game would go faster if they just had one shot at it.”
“Tradition,” I said.
“Can I have a beer?”
“No. You’re underage and they cost nearly ten dollars apiece.”
“I’m 218 years-old as your species keeps time.”
“Watch the game.”
“Why does that man throwing the spherical object keep shaking his head?”
“He’s getting signals.”
“From the catcher. He uses his fingers to signal.”
“Why doesn’t he use a radio transmitter?”
“Tradition.” I said.
“Is this a game of tradition?”
I felt mischievous. “No,” I said, “it’s a game of balls and strikes.”
I can’t best him at being obnoxious.
“Oh,” he said. “So that couple over there is playing baseball when he kisses her on the strikes, and …”
“C.W.” I yelled as the family in front of us turned around and glared.
“Tradition, probably,” he said.
Oh my. Eight more innings to go.
Just then, a left handed batter fouled one straight toward a spot about four rows in front of us. A young boy with a baseball glove stood to catch it but C.W. rose, extended an arm forward, and snatched the ball just before it entered the kid’s glove. Half the crowd around us stared in amazement. The other half booed. Before anyone could take action, C.W. leaped over the seats, ran down the aisle, and started yelling “Mister, mister,” at the third base coach. When the fellow looked over, C.W. tossed the ball to him and said, “Here’s your spherical object back.”
|Best I can tell. the fellow in front is there to retrieve|
the spherical objects. It's a strange game. - C.W.
Amazed, the man caught the ball and pitched it toward the dugout.
I looked down and straightened my shirt. The crowd stared in anger and amazement. As he walked back toward me, C.W. announced to everyone watching, “I’ll bet there are some people who would want to steal those.”
From the corner of my eye, I could see it all being replayed on the jumbotron.
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