By Sarah Carlson, Copy Editor
I Am The Enemy
I went home last weekend, and as I sat in my living room watching baseball with my father, mainly Jose Lima’s shutout of the Cardinals, I realized how much I enjoy baseball. We talked about our favorite baseball movies while he explained to me some of the rules and strategies of the game.
I don’t know anything about the sport really, except that the players hit the ball and then run around the bases trying to get to home. OK, I know a little more than that, but I think the beauty of the sport is that you don’t have to be a die-hard fan and know tons of statistics to enjoy it.
My first major league baseball game experience was in May at Camden Yards in Baltimore where the Orioles played the Yankees. Every time Derek Jeter or Alex Rodriguez went on the field the crowd booed. A sudden shower delayed the game, which ended up lasting five hours, and we still had an hour bus ride to get home. It was fabulous.
My second baseball game came in August when I saw the Rangers play the Devil Rays. I wasn’t prepared for the fireworks and the theme music from The Natural (my dad’s favorite baseball movie) when they had a homerun, and I couldn’t help feeling like an excited kid when I heard that music and the crowd erupting with cheers.
When I watched fireworks at Crutcher Scott Field this Fourth of July while Ray Charles’ America the Beautiful played, I felt I should be playing baseball, like in The Sandlot.
Growing up in Texas, so much emphasis is placed on football you would think that it was America’s pastime. Some may consider it so, but I would beg to differ. Maybe the fast pace and barbaric nature of the sport reflects the change in our society over the past century, which is why it could be considered the new pastime of choice.
But I will still cling to baseball as being the true pastime, and one of the main constants in American life. It’s fathers and children playing catch in the spring. It’s families going to games together and ordering $5 hot dogs and $4 sodas. Ah, the American way of life. It’s watching baseball movies like Field of Dreams (my favorite) and having the urge to call your parents. If you don’t cry or at least get choked up when Kevin Costner asks his ghost-of-a-dad if he wants to have a catch on the field he built for him, then you don’t have a soul.
Last year, I wasted four hours of my life watching the Yankees beat the Red Sox in game 7 of the ALCS. Even though I’m not a huge fan, I couldn’t help feeling an overwhelming sense of defeat, believing that once again something is not right with the world because evil keeps prevailing over good. One of my friends almost went into mourning. And here it is again, another year, and I hope not another disappointment.
But I’ll keep watching and attending the games, and I hope I will live in a city with a major league team in it. Maybe Boston.