amc is beating up on me tonight.
It’s partially my own fault. I decided tonight would be a good night for a rum and coke. It’s fair – I haven’t had a drink in a few weeks and sometime a girl’s gotta kick back a bit.
But had I known that they were going to play Field of Dreams followed by The Natural, I’d’ve made sure not to have a second.
Alcohol is a maginifying glass. It takes my love of baseball and magnifies it a hundredfold, making it impossible to keep an dry eye when Ray Kinsella shakes his father’s hand, or Moonlight Graham becomes the Doc, or Roy Hobbes asks Bobby to pick him out a winner. It’s multiplied even further by the White Sox win – a team I’d not care less about if the Phillies had made the playoffs, but since the Sox haven’t won the Series since 1917…
The dog’s snoring a few feet from me. Baseball means nothing to her, football neither. Both (along with hockey) are just a reason that people yell at the TV. She’ll never enjoy the smell of the leather or the spin of the ball. She seems to think that grass is for muching on. She’ll never understand that baseball is the most beautiful thing there is.
