The Classless Southerner or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Blame My Parents

This morning at brunch, my boyfriend tried to explain baseball positions to me using miniature coffee creamers. This was difficult for him, as I was far more interested in the many flavors available than the lesson at hand (Did you know they make white mocha flavor now?? Life changing moment.).

Like most personality flaws I possess, I blame my lack of interest in baseball on my childhood. If my life was a sitcom (which I all too often imagine it is), now would be the time where chimes would play and I'd go off into a dream state a la Scrubs. It would go something like this:

Therapist: And why, exactly, do you think it is you never liked baseball?
Me: Well - *sniffle* - doc, it's just that my dad always loved Tennessee football, and we lived way out in the country far, far away from the big city. I never had a team to root for. I never got to learn the game. *sob*
Therapist: And how does this make you feel?
Me: LIKE MY PARENTS DIDN'T LOVE ME! *wail*

And, close curtain.

Dramatic fiction aside, I really never knew much about baseball. Just like hockey, it was something I was never exposed to. Unlike hockey, when I moved to Chicago, I still didn't really take an interest.

I've decided that, just like my multiplication tables, instead of actually taking the time to learn it, I'm just going to stick my nose in the air and act like it's irrelevant to my life. Don't judge me. I was never good at math.

An actual conversation between baseball fan, fellow sports writer, and all around badass friend Mary Mizura and I:

Me: I hate writing about baseball. That's going to be the first beat writer I'm recruiting for my site when it's launched so I don't have to do it.
Mary: I love baseball! It's like the ballet.
Me: Yeah, I've never been to a real ballet, just the Nutcracker when I was a kid. And when I saw Les Mis and Phantom in London I was hammered. I'll stick with hockey and football, where my lack of class is appreciated.

Who needs imaginary therapy when you've got friends to lead you to the roots of your problems? Clearly, I don't posses the maturity, patience, or all around finesse it takes to really appreciate a sport that has nine innings and six minutes of action.

Coffee creamer lessons or not, the most I'll ever really watch is a few innings. What I can appreciate, though, is seven innings of beer being sold, A-Rod's arms, and the bars surrounding Wrigleyville.

Blame my childhood.