My aunt drove us out to see my not-precisely-nephew play baseball. Andrew is my cousin Amanda’s son. He’s eight years old and Little League is starting to occupy a good part of his time, though not (yet) to the extent that hockey did for my brother’s son Zach (now fourteen). This is the age at which the kids start pitching, so the games are a little bit slow and haphazard, but Andrew hit the ball both times he was at bat, which is pretty good.
It was the first time my husband, who is 1) Dutch and 2) not a sports fan of any kind, had ever seen a baseball game. It was the first time in many years that I’d attended one myself, so dredging the rules out of my memory in order to explain them was a bit of a challenge. (I was, however, able to remember that 4 balls are a walk and 3 strikes are an out.) I must say I preferred the generally good-natured cheering to the kind of earsplitting noises that the watching parents at Zach’s hockey games make, but then, Zach was already a bit older when I went to watch him play.