Lemme guess, some sort of team sport...

I love it the way that you love a distant relative. Someone you met when you were too young to really understand what family is and how it molds and shapes who you are. There's something magical about it. The way the field is leveled, the grass perfect, the players positioned perfectly throughout the expansive green that is the outfield. Barely watching the pitch, I hear the crack of the bat against the ball. Standing out of instinct, my head tilted toward the sky searching for the tiny speck of white, trying to gain some reference by watching the rest of the crowd. Finding the ball just before the loud snap of it finding it's unwanted home in the outfielder's mitt. I watch as the players move as if attached to strings, propelled by some grand puppeteer, moving as one into the perfect positions to cut the long toss to second off, perfectly aimed, throwing the ball 200 feet like it was nothing. Reaching it's destination, second base swings his arm which is propelled by the energy of the ball down to tag the runner trying to make his way back. It all plays out like some sort of mythical play. The way that nature seems to have a designer; it all works too well together.
Double play. The inning ends and it's time for the seventh inning stretch. Fans stand, stretching mostly out of tradition than any real need to stretch their legs. The game had been close enough to keep everyone in their seats instead of wandering around buying hot dogs and beer. The combination is floating through my head, and oh, what a combination. Nothing in this world can make you feel so good and as bad in equal measures. Standing up to participate in the tradition that has no traceable origin, I lift my arms above my head and feel the soft and cool breeze in the early September evening. The crowd is chattering and waiting for the obligatory take me out to the ball game to begin. As expected the chords begin to pulse through the loud speakers that are attached and placed through out the ballpark. There's no point in resisting and hell, who would resist singing the national anthem of baseball?
Waiting for the last lines I turn, announcing that I need a fresh beer and ask if anyone wants anything.
"I'll get a dog with some relish and onions please."
"Alright, I'll be back in a second."
Lifting my legs I make my way up the stairs to the main concourse. I see the food stands placed throughout like the gauntlet thrown before someone trying to just make it to their seats with their kids still attached to their hip. I hear the usual excuses given to small children when asked if they can get a hot dog or some cotton candy. I hear all the things that I remember being told by my parents. One hot dog a game, maybe a coke if I was lucky. The memories flooding back and filling me with happiness that has to be shaken from me like dew from a blanket laid on grass in the evening.
I'd been waiting in line, so drunk with season's memories past that I didn't notice I was next. I hadn't prepared myself properly to bark my orders clear enough. I knew I was going to be one of those people who fumbles nervously and takes too long when all you want to do is get your food and back to your seat in a timely manner.
Sure enough, I was that guy. Mumbling, being reduced to just pointing to what he wants as he walks down the line. Handing over a $10 bill for my 6 dollar hot dog, I head to the beer vendor next. This is a lot easier than ordering the hot dog. It's a simple, generally two-word order.
"One, please."
Balancing my food and full plastic cup of beer I start the long journey home. Trying not to drop the hot dog or pour my drink down someone's shirt as hard as I can, I make my way back to my seat. The inning's just started and I haven't missed much. First pitch, the familiar crack and slap of a pop-fly, hit and caught. It's amazing to me the way that sound travels. It had always been something I craved. The sound was so familiar, so apart of the fond memories that it could put me to sleep. You could play just the sound of a baseball game in my ears at night and before you knew it, I'd be sound asleep.
It had always been this way. The green of the grass, the stiffness of bolted down seats, the smells all mixing to create the potpourri of baseball.
My seats and friends are just where I left them, some not so intent on the score and some rubbing those one's faces in it. It was all here. There was nothing outside of this park that life could need.