This past summer I became infatuated with the game of bocce ball. Not only was it an excellent way to spend a summer night, get some friends together, and do nothing while somehow occupying your mind for countless hours, but it was also a wonderful excuse to always have a beer in one hand. The radio call of the M's game was usually on in the background, and our typical playing surface had an angled slope that by summer's end I had become quite accustomed to. By statistical analysis, it would have been hard to quantify my dominance, hard to predict.
M's lose game of bocce ball played on infield grass
