Maybe the entire world needs to take a seventh inning stretch and think a little harder about what they’re trying to recreate before they strike out permanently or lose it all in a penalty shoot-out with stakes higher than any of us should have to imagine.
Is there anything as American as a farm league baseball game? It is old-timey nostalgia wrapped up in a ballpark frank. Organ music and popcorn, pop flies and strike-outs.
Last week we climbed to our seats behind the third base line. Half British, raised in Europe, my sons have grown up on football (read: soccer). This was their very first experience in the stands of America’s past time.
We sat in hard, blue seats and drank plastic cups full of beer and explained the rules to our sons. The little one sat with a mitt borrowed from a friend in case a foul ball made it high into the stands. The announcer asked fans to remove their hats, a catch-all sign of respect I remember from my school girl days. The Star-Spangled Banner was warbled, hands were pressed firmly over red, white and blue hearts and then it was “Play Ball!” I…
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