last sunday, the four of us drove to ft myers to watch the orioles at the red sox, a spring training game. the great american past time, that baseball, is nothing more than an excuse to sit with your friends, eat hot dogs and cracker jacks and drink beer and roll your eyes at the asshole who takes it upon himself to enumerate every opposing team member's faults, loudly and often, inaccurately. it's also a great way to spend a beautiful florida spring sunday afternoon, parked on the lawn, dashing to the concession stand and back, arms full of nitrite-laden goodness and overpriced sweaty bottles of water.
if you can understand the game of baseball, namely, throw the ball, hit the ball, catch the ball, and the inevitabilities of life it teaches: sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes it rains, then you're halfway to having yourself a good ol' time at the ballpark.
so wear some sunscreen, bring a load of cash, come early to get a good seat on the lawn, and remember on thing: love those red sox as you might, you're not really there to see the game. you're there for the experience, the true american experience. and don't forget to stand at the beginning of the seventh inning.