Why I Love Baseball

Why I Love Baseball (Even Though It’s Basically a Four-Hour Nap with Hot Dogs)

by Definitely Not Pete Rose, But Let’s Pretend

Let me begin by saying this: I love baseball. I love it the way people love their slightly broken garage door—it doesn’t always work, it makes weird noises, but darn it, it’s ours. Baseball is the only sport where you can gain 6 pounds just by attending a game, and that, my friends, is America.

People say baseball is slow. Those people are called “correct.” But that’s part of the charm! Baseball is a sport of strategy, patience, and the sacred art of scratching in public. It’s a symphony of subtlety—by which I mean the first 8 innings are often indistinguishable from watching paint dry on a tortoise.

But let’s talk about the rules, because they are simple. There are nine innings, unless the game is tied, in which case the players are legally obligated to keep going until one team wins, everyone dies of old age, or the hot dog machine explodes—whichever comes first.

There are also positions, like “left fielder,” “shortstop,” and “designated hitter,” which is a fancy term for “the guy who only shows up to bat and doesn’t like to run.” Then there’s the catcher, who spends three hours squatting behind the batter like he’s trying to pass a kidney stone while wearing medieval armor.

Let’s not forget the pitcher, whose job is to throw a tiny leather-covered missile at 100 mph, aiming it with surgical precision—unless he’s having a bad day, in which case it’s just a game of dodgeball where everyone loses. Or batting practice. Meanwhile, the umpire behind the catcher makes important hand gestures like “safe,” “out,” and “I have no idea, but I’ll make it look confident.”

And about the catcher. Widely agreed to be the toughest guy on the diamond, he wears armor and pads everywhere and still always gets hit in the one place that isn’t protected (usually the groin). Which makes me feel both sorry for him, and glad I don’t play catcher. Most normal people don’t play catcher. The people who play catcher usually are the types who think horror movies are comedies and chuckle when they witness human suffering. Especially humans on the opposing team.

And the fans. Oh, the fans. Baseball fans are a special breed. We’ll sit in sweltering heat, holding a $12 nacho trough and yell things like “RUN, YOU LAZY @#&%” while also arguing passionately about statistics like OBP, WAR, and QWERTY. Some of us bring scorecards and fill them out with cryptic symbols like ancient druids predicting the weather using squirrel entrails.

Baseball is also the only sport with a seventh-inning stretch, which is code for “we’re only 70% through this thing and your legs no longer function.” During this time, everyone stands up to sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” a cheerful tune that includes the phrase “root, root, root for the home team,” which is how you know it was written before the era of aggressive sports heckling and Twitter.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Baseball has drama. Tension. Suspense. There is nothing—nothing—like the bottom of the ninth, two outs, full count, the entire stadium on edge as the pitcher throws, the batter swings, and—BAM!—he misses completely and everyone groans while the announcer says, “Well, folks, that’s baseball!”

Yes, that is baseball. Wonderful. Illogical. Deeply weird. Frequently heartbreaking. Gloriously misunderstood. And yes, I will keep watching it, loving it, and pretending I understand what an "infield fly rule" is.

See you in the bleachers. I’ll be the one covered in peanut shells and existential joy.

Play ball!