Baseball, you are wonderful.

We miss our pumpkin; Walker figured out he needed fresh air to survive, so brought him on a little field trip to our stoop. May you be happy in your element, cheery pumpkin. Your color made us so happy. Sorry we almost killed you from heat stroke!

We’re sitting in our darling living room pooped from scrubbing the floor (me) and web designing (my hubby). Dave Matthews. Apple crisp for the second time today. Baseball Gameday up on both our computers. Oh, America, how are you so here, when we’re so not there?


So, it’s baseball season. Walker’s from Minnesota and I’m from New Jersey, so our teams are going at it right now in the baseball post-season. Except, Walker’s never really been a Twins fan, so has turned to the good side, my side. My dad pointed out at our Minnesota wedding reception that I was a fourth generation Yankees fan, of the '27-time World Series Champion New York Yankees’ variety. Beat that, yo.

To say interlocking NYs run in my blood is definitely understated. I love baseball. I love the smells of the stadium, the banter. I love peanuts thrown over my head and then getting to crunch over their shells on the way out of my seat. Each game has a litany, and I love being soaked into a mass of people excited about the beauty of each inning’s routine, and the possibility of the next play.

Baseball, after all, is all about possibility. Chances are slim, but when one pitch meets a certain batter’s bat at a certain angle, and the ball soars, and all that piled up anticipation is released: that is why people love baseball. For the one thing that you saw that had never before happened in the history of baseball, you’re hooked.

Really, I love the stats in baseball. All those numbers that are constantly morphing, ways to compare and add significance to guys running around catching and throwing and hitting balls: mad fascinating.

And when it’s too cold to sit in a stadium comfortably, that’s when it turns e-p-i-c. And so, we will knowingly attach own significance to a team in hopes that we will soar away with them in their victory, gaining nothing but a feeling so awfully Homeric.

We do this at 1 in the morning and stay awake to the sound of the radio and “swung on and hit to left center field . . . deep . . . it’s going all the way to wall, and Posada rounds third. He will score.” Booyah, America.

Take me out to the ballgame, even if I'm huddled under a duvet listening to play-by-play 3000 miles away.