The other night my husband and I went to a baseball game. The major league, man. None of that T-ball or minor leagues bullcrap…this was the real deal. Peanuts and beer and take me out to the ball game and all that who-rah-rah.
Yes. I whole heartedly love going to baseball games. It’s probably one of the strangest things about me. I’m not big on sports. I don’t wear players’ jerseys. I don’t really even have a favorite player or team, for that matter. I just love going to the ball park and sitting in the stands and cheering. It really is exciting to see some home runs and sing the ballpark songs and all that. You like it too, be honest. I would never really watch baseball on tv either. Either live ball or no ball.
So, while at the game, the players hit baseballs…baseballs that do not always go into the outfield and balls that do not always get caught by a man that makes millions of dollars. Sometimes those little white bullets go straight into the stands and into the faces of poor unsuspecting yet supportive fans.
This is the only thing I fear about baseball: getting hit in the face with a foul ball
The odds are slim, yet every time I hear the crack of the bat and don’t see the ball, I panic slightly that if I turn my head to search for where it flew, it will mangle my face the instant I turn. It’s true. I flinch a little every time.
I made the mistake of telling this fun fact to my husband and a friend of his the last ball game that we went to. Now, every time a foul ball is hit, my husband says Watch out Kate, as if the ball is hurtling towards my newly done dental work at 98 miles per hour.
Every time. And I flinch every time, and he laughs every time. You’d think that by now, I would learn it’s all a joke…but I am versed in the story of the boy who cried wolf.
And I do not want my
sheep face to get eaten annihilated by some wolf joyful outing!