Anyone who reads Rhonda's weekly column (I know you all read Rhonda's weekly column) knows that baseball season has begun. I am not a baseball fan. More than that, I am a hockey fan. I like my spectator sports violent, emotional, full of vendettas, extremely fast-paced, and preferably on ice. I love it when a game comes down to an incredible goalie, a huge defenseman, and couple of crazy-fast forwards with a 2-on-1. I love the home team broadcasters with mandatory Canadian accents. I love Dippin' Dots (it's the ice cream of the future--right now!), power plays, and sudden death over time.
But something strange happened today. Maybe it was the smell of fresh cut grass at the park across the street. Or the sunshine that felt so warm on my shoulders. Heck, maybe was watching that Yankees outfielder almost beat the crap out of the Boston fan on TV last night (yeah, it was probably that). But something made me say to myself, "Gee, I'd sure like to go to a ball game soon. I could really go for some garlic fries."
(Of course I realize that this wouldn't have happened if there had been a hockey game to watch at any point in the last year and a half, or if there were any hope of watching a hockey game in the next year and a half. Of course I realize that the void hockey has left in my life, my heart, and my TV viewing schedule cannot be filled by laundry, Hebrew lessons and heavy snacking alone. And no, of course baseball will never fill that void...but it wouldn't hurt to let it sublease the void for a bit.)
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Garlic fries or not, it's a non-contact sport with steroid-use problems. That's like being an angry hiker. Stay true to your hockey instincts.
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