Prior to marrying Matt, I never really cared about baseball. Yes, I went to Dodger games on a semi-regular basis every summer, but that was because my dad loved baseball. I was only there because I loved Dodger Dogs. And frozen chocolate malts. And, for a short shameful period in 1988, Orel Hershiser.
(By the way, I still love two out of three things on the above list. I'll let you discern which ones.)
Anyway, Matt did grow up caring about baseball. A lot. He played Little League and drove out to Palm Springs every year to watch the Angels Spring Training. Nolan Ryan was his hero, and when he got transferred to the Texas Rangers, a little teeny tiny cutie patootey Matt wrote a letter to Jim Fregosi, the manager of the Angels at the time, asking him to please please please pretty please with a cherry on top not trade Nolan Ryan. Then he stuck it in an envelope addressed it simply to "Jim Fregosi, Angel Stadium" and sent it out in the mail. Apparently, Mr. Fregosi never got the letter, or if he did, he has a shard of ice where his heart should be. Why else would he crush the hopes and dreams of such a pint sized little fan? And one with such a cute little face?
So, all this is to explain to you that when I married Matthew, I married into baseball. More specifically, I married into Angels baseball. During the months of April through October, the kids know that Angel games take precedence over their Nick 'toons- a fact that they hate. To them baseball is as exciting as watching grass grow. And while I fully, completely, tooooooooootally can see their point of view, I will never in a million years say so to Matt because I don't mind keeping him company while he watches baseball. It's fun. If I have a question, he seems to enjoy taking time to explain it. He's a good teacher.
Except.
There are a few questions that I have which he seems to ignore. It's almost like he doesn't think they're worthy of an answer. This bothers me because I do feel they're worthy. In fact, every time I watch a game, these same questions pop up in my head, over and over. I find it hard to believe that I'm the only one who wonders these things so I thought I'd put them out there to see if any of you all have ever questioned the following....
First, why do baseball players spit so much? Are they not aware of the cameras on them? Do their mama's watching at home feel as disgusted as I do at seeing the brown slugs of tobacco juice being spat from the sides of their mouths every few seconds? Has no one told them how disgusting this looks? Have they never caught sight of themselves on a screen? Surely, if they had they would know how repulsive they look.
Also, does every stadium have a laundry service? Who gets all those dirt stains out of the uniforms?
How do they memorize all those little hand signals? Watching them communicate that way is fascinating and frustrating. I want to know what they're saying. Do you think they throw in a few signals for words that have nothing to do with baseball, like "Hot blonde, left bleachers, 2 rows up?" Why is all so secretive? I don't like it.
Finally, why do they just throw their gatorade cups on the ground in the dugout? Isn't there a trash can somewhere? For some reason, this one bothers me the most. Matt says that it's somebody's job to sweep it all up after the game, but I just think "Why?" Nobody would have to sweep it if they would just put it in the trash to start with! And here's the thing, if somebody really does have the job of sweeping it all up, I'd much rather it be a guy than a girl. Letting the players just throw trash on the ground with the knowledge that a girl is going to come by later and pick it up for them gets me all feminist and uppity.
I guess the real question I should be asking is to myself: When will I get to stop being a mom and just enjoy simple things like baseball for what they are- without relating them to laundry and messes?
Don't answer that. You know it's a rhetorical question. I'm never really going to be able to stop seeing things through my mom eyes. BUT, just to be clear, I only worry about these things during an extra long inning with a ton of full counts and walks and hardly any action.
So, basically for only like, half the game. The rest of the time I am in it. In it to win it.
Go Halos!
Have a good night.
(By the way, I still love two out of three things on the above list. I'll let you discern which ones.)
Anyway, Matt did grow up caring about baseball. A lot. He played Little League and drove out to Palm Springs every year to watch the Angels Spring Training. Nolan Ryan was his hero, and when he got transferred to the Texas Rangers, a little teeny tiny cutie patootey Matt wrote a letter to Jim Fregosi, the manager of the Angels at the time, asking him to please please please pretty please with a cherry on top not trade Nolan Ryan. Then he stuck it in an envelope addressed it simply to "Jim Fregosi, Angel Stadium" and sent it out in the mail. Apparently, Mr. Fregosi never got the letter, or if he did, he has a shard of ice where his heart should be. Why else would he crush the hopes and dreams of such a pint sized little fan? And one with such a cute little face?
Perhaps I'm a little biased.
Except.
There are a few questions that I have which he seems to ignore. It's almost like he doesn't think they're worthy of an answer. This bothers me because I do feel they're worthy. In fact, every time I watch a game, these same questions pop up in my head, over and over. I find it hard to believe that I'm the only one who wonders these things so I thought I'd put them out there to see if any of you all have ever questioned the following....
First, why do baseball players spit so much? Are they not aware of the cameras on them? Do their mama's watching at home feel as disgusted as I do at seeing the brown slugs of tobacco juice being spat from the sides of their mouths every few seconds? Has no one told them how disgusting this looks? Have they never caught sight of themselves on a screen? Surely, if they had they would know how repulsive they look.
Also, does every stadium have a laundry service? Who gets all those dirt stains out of the uniforms?
How do they memorize all those little hand signals? Watching them communicate that way is fascinating and frustrating. I want to know what they're saying. Do you think they throw in a few signals for words that have nothing to do with baseball, like "Hot blonde, left bleachers, 2 rows up?" Why is all so secretive? I don't like it.
Finally, why do they just throw their gatorade cups on the ground in the dugout? Isn't there a trash can somewhere? For some reason, this one bothers me the most. Matt says that it's somebody's job to sweep it all up after the game, but I just think "Why?" Nobody would have to sweep it if they would just put it in the trash to start with! And here's the thing, if somebody really does have the job of sweeping it all up, I'd much rather it be a guy than a girl. Letting the players just throw trash on the ground with the knowledge that a girl is going to come by later and pick it up for them gets me all feminist and uppity.
I guess the real question I should be asking is to myself: When will I get to stop being a mom and just enjoy simple things like baseball for what they are- without relating them to laundry and messes?
Don't answer that. You know it's a rhetorical question. I'm never really going to be able to stop seeing things through my mom eyes. BUT, just to be clear, I only worry about these things during an extra long inning with a ton of full counts and walks and hardly any action.
So, basically for only like, half the game. The rest of the time I am in it. In it to win it.
Go Halos!
Have a good night.
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