Damn, I love everything about baseball. On the right day, at the right field, a baseball game can be downright magical. A warm spring night, the lights beaming down on a perfectly curated Roger Bossard lawn that amateur sodfathers only dream about. The smell of grilled onions, Chicago style, wafting from the 100-level corridors. The crack of the bat on the ball. The beer vendors yelling in their gruff voices over the cheers, jeers, and your dad saying “fucking idiot ump” under his breath because there are kids nearby.
The walk-up songs, the fireworks, and being in the open air in a dynamic third space where you can lose yourself in your senses, where there’s so much going on that your brain forgets to pay attention to the chatter inside your head.