Earlier this week I went to a baseball game. With a friend. A male-type friend.
Here’s the thing about me: I am indifferent toward the idea of baseball as a sport. But I very much favor the idea of attending baseball games.
Aforementioned male friend knows quite a bit about baseball, and I know . . . well, not as much. So we talked baseball rules and baseball strategy and baseball history and baseball trivia and baseball statistics and baseball this and baseball that, etc., etc., etc., ad nauseum. Probably less than 10% of what we talked about has been retained in my puny little brain since then. But whatever. My purpose in life is not to remember baseball facts.
At one point I started talking about my shocking realization that probably most of the players are now younger than me (yikes!). In response, the male-type friend started making sure I knew exactly which players actually are (despite the fact that he himself is . . . well, let’s just say, older than me). Once I realized what he was doing, I laughed.
I ventured a suspicion that the bat boy was cute (I couldn’t see his face clearly; only his physique) but guessed that he was probably also still in high school. I speculated how one gets a job such as that. The male-type friend said I ought to go down there (we were just a few feet away from the dugout) and ask the kid for an interview. I said my first question would be how old he was, and if the answer was younger than 23, the interview would promptly end. The male-type friend said that wouldn’t make me a very professional or ethical journalist. I said that was okay because I hate journalism. He said in that case, my first question should be, Can you take off your helmet so I can see if you’re cute. This made me laugh.
I chose favorite players based on their cool names rather than skill. Ka’aihue and Francoeur won this contest. This sparked an ethnicity guessing game, wherein we inadvertently discovered that my default guess for someone with brown skin, a broad-ish nose, and wide-set eyes is Filipino. For some reason this made us laugh.
And then I began a discussion about the uniforms. How well they fit certain players. How the pants looked really good if they were just the right length. (Yeah, but some of them are a bit too long, chimed in the male-type friend as he pointed to an outfielder whose pant legs touched the grass.)
The male-type friend tolerated this conversation longer than an eavesdropper probably would’ve expected. Near the end, when I pointed out a player-at-bat’s saggy-in-the-butt pants, the male-type friend drew the line and spoke up again: I can’t believe I’m actually having this discussion. For some reason him saying that made me laugh and laugh and laugh. But I did not apologize.
I asked really stupid questions about baseball and sports in general. I acted so girly, to the point that it was a little uncharacteristic of me. And the even weirder thing is, I wasn’t even ashamed.
Maybe it was my estrogen staging a protest against prior manly actions – like drinking a beer in the parking lot before the game. Something fruity would’ve been more my style.
I should’ve counted how many times I heard the term walk-off home run during that game. I don’t even know what a walk-off home run is. Wasn’t able to deduce from context. And I haven’t Googled it in the days since. I’m not even Googling it right now. So sue me.
It was a great game, though, and a great evening out. The kind of evening that couldn’t be done justice in 140 characters. I would know. I tried. And then I deleted.
Got a free Sonic Slush the next day by showing my ticket . . . not sure if it was because of home runs or because the Royals won. Either way, free stuff is cool, and I was previously a Sonic Slush virgin.
The male-type friend texted to remind me to hit up a Sonic, and my reply was that I didn’t even know where to find one.
He texted back: I support your lack of patronage. For some reason, this response made me laugh and laugh and laugh.
In light of my retroflection (that’s my smooshing together of reflection and retrospection; I think it’ll catch on) on this particular evening, I suppose it is easy to see why guys prefer other guys when it comes to attending sporting events.