Oh.  Baseball.  The National Pastime.  Some people absolutely love it.  Other folks would rather watch paint dry…. or cars go round and round and round in circles.  I just say…  take me out to the ball game.  Take me out with the crowd.
Peanuts.
Cracker Jacks.
(You know the drill…. as the old song goes….)
I don’t care if I never get back.

The Majors are really something these days.  Players wear their pants down to their ankles…  nobody stays on the same team very long, it seems.  A hot dog costs six bucks. Yep.  It all keeps changing.

Seems it all started a long time ago.  The earliest known mention of baseball in the United States was a 1791 Pittsfield, Massachusetts Ordinance.  It banned the playing of the game within 80 yards  of the town meeting house.  Not going to break those windows.  No way.  No how.

In 1903, the British sportswriter Henry Chadwick published an article speculating that baseball derived from a British game called Rounders, which Chadwick had played as a boy in England.

But some big dudes in baseball got wind of this.  They said Chadwick had it ALL wrong.   Baseball was All-American, for crying out loud.  They formed a committee.  They voted… and crowned Abner Doubleday the Father of the Game.

Abner had no idea.  He had been dead nearly 15 years.  No idea.
Nor could old Abner ever had guessed the game would be played as it is today.  By 5-year-olds.  On dirt ball fields.  In small towns.  All across America.

They lie down in the dirt and make Sand Angels behind 2nd base.  They dance. And talk to themselves.   Run the wrong way around the bases and such.

I think…. it is the sport of baseball… at its very best.   Hot dogs are cheaper too.

So its root, root, root for the home team.  If they don’t win its a shame.  For it’s one, two, three strikes, you’re out,
…..at the old ball game.

“Baseball is ninety percent mental and the other half is physical.” – Yogi Berra