I've never been one to enjoy watching sports on TV. I don't know how my father can just sit there for hours watching football and basketball. He says it's the same as me binging Friends or The Office, but I don't see the connection. But even though I don't enjoy watching televised sports, I do enjoy watching the game being played live. Every now and then my father would buy tickets to a Yankees game and it was something I would genuinely look forward to. There's something so authentic about a family going to a baseball game: everyone takes a break from living their own separate lives to spend an entire day lounging lazily in the sun, eating overpriced chicken tenders and ice cream, and to simply enjoy each other's company without the speed of the world trying to move them along their parallel but separate paths... nevermind watching the actual game. For an entire day, everything is as innocent, bright, and warm as the memories it creates, and these memories that will always have me coming back for more.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Take me out to the ball game. Take me out with the crowd.
The crowd of fat, blue-capped, sunscreen-slapped
men, wives, and little children of five
years who bring posters made to flap and parade
in the stands of plastic seats hot from the scorching summer heat,
and the kids all screech,
"we want something to eat!"
So you give them a treat,
"we want something sweet!"
like overpriced ice cream in a cup with the home team
sign. And somewhere in the rear you hear "get yer beer here!"
so you raise up your hand so the man with the cans
can meet the demand of this parched Yankees' fan.
And Thwack! is the hack that comes from the bat, and everyone's hats
are held as they get up and stand to see where the ball lands
but it's lost in the sun, wait...could it be? A home run!
And there goes Aaron Judge,
taking a lap as the crowd cheers and claps.
All rise for the man who just widened the gap.
Shake your kids from their naps cause Didi's at bat
followed by Gary Sanchez, then Gleyber Torres.
Standing six three tall, Didi swings at the ball.
Strike one! is the call and the cheers start to fall.
And there goes strike two! And the fans start to "boo"
while he spits at his shoes, perhaps as a glue
to secure his swing-through.
But, he hits the last one and breaks into a run:
first, second, third, home, and the game has been won!
So we scream out with glee, "Let's go, Yankees!"
And under the haze of the stadium rays,
I wish my whole life could be just like today:
always amazed with the craze of the way
my heart goes ablaze at the ole ball game.