Take Me Out [to my own couch] to the Ballgame[s]

If you sat in the brown chair near to me here in the living room, you'd hear the clock ticking. In the far distance, the faint, ever-present whine of the coal mine. The sound of car wheels on a wet street. But no baseball.

Baseball has created a new white noise in our house every night for the past month. Martin discovered he could order the entire MLB season on our Roku, and this translates to more games than one person could possibly watch. Baseball players never take a night off, apparently. Every night Martin tucks the girls in and then almost falls over his feet on his way to the TV, where he flips on yet another Astros game. Ah, the sound of the crowd; the sonorous voices of the announcers; the applause when Pence Whathisname makes yet another fabulous base hit.

I am being a good friend to Martin, and I have watched quite a few hours of baseball at his side, even though I have no natural interest in the sport or in any sport. I've eased into the rhythm of the pitchers, hitters, RBIs, the catcher signalling pitches into his crotch with two or three fingers. There is a certain narrative quality to the sport, and this I respect and even enjoy. But let me ask you all a question. Why is it that baseball players feel feel compelled even to engage in socially unacceptable behaviors? I'm not referring to the occasional yelling between coaches and referees on the mound. I'm talking about the endless clothing adjustments (particularly to one sensitive area), and the eternal spitting. Who needs to spit that much? In what world is scattering the hulls to sunflower seeds along with your own saliva okay? And as for the scratching, the pulling, the shaking of the crotch, why? I started to wonder, do the uniforms just not fit anyone? Are they made badly on purpose? Or is it all just part of the glorious baseball tradition?

I have a favorite player, though I can't remember his name. Hold on, let me ask Martin. Brett Wallace. I like his face and his boyish eyes; he always looks like he's trying to be serious as befits the occasion.

Baseball is back on. Martin was out with our friend Kevin, checking out some flooding in our county. They didn't get very far because an emergency vehicle that was blocking a flooded road. Martin reported briefly that the roads were deserted and the fog made the countryside eerie, and then he returned to baseball.

It's like we have a house guest who will never leave. And Baseball season is not particularly brief. It ends (wait for it) in EARLY OCTOBER!

And then comes the playoffs. Good times. There's a lot more crotch grabbing in our future. Guess what? David Wright just hit a homer. The Mets are ahead, 5-4. We're on the edge of our seats. Ooo, my man Brett Wallace is up to bat. (According to the announcer, Wallace's legs are like tree trunks). He swings. . .gotta go.