NOT EVEN REMOTELY INTERESTED IN BASEBALL

For some reason everyone wishes to assume that everyone else is fascinated by what the home town baseball team is doing. Which, for all I know and care, requires whipped cream coloured blue for Fleet Week, Taiko drums, and a live goat. This in lieu of an ancient tradition: leaving a bratwurst and a beer at home plate in the middle of the night.
Personally, I love both bratwursts AND goats.
So by all rights I should be obsessed.

Far freakin' from it.


This blogger is capable of indulging his goat and bratwurst thing without having recourse in any way to worship of the San Francisco Giants.
No, I have no idea what they're doing.
Despite the animalistic howling of fans in my vicinity.
Please do not bore me with details.


Baseball, for readers outside the United States, is an American game that's very much like cricket. But instead of lasting five days, it takes about three hours. It includes balls with flies, fine sausages, and teams that alternate at bat. Nobody goes to the pavilion for copious draughts of tea at any time, there is no Dundee Cake. It is staggeringly interminable.
There are no wickets whatsoever, but there are home plates.
On which you may find a sausage and some kraut.
At the seventh inning, people stretch.
Songs are involved.


I do not mind the sausage and the kraut, but I am baffled by the blue-coloured whipping cream and the lively goat.


This affair could be improved by tea.




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