“Know what you’re doing out there.”
The voice issues from the dugout, gruff and sure. I look toward the bench from my spot on the bleachers, see the manager leaning against the dugout fence, arms crossed. Blue ball cap sitting straight over his brow, sunglasses propped on the brim . He spits a sunflower seed to the ground. Pfft.
Know what you’re doing.
Obvious.
Easy, right?
Pfft.
I turn my attention to the batter’s box. A solid young man stands at home plate, his back to us, the toes of his back foot twisting into the dirt. The pitch comes in low and fast, the batter swings and cracks a hard ground ball between first and second. The second baseman scrambles to the left, scoops up the ball and, in one seamless motion, fires it to first. The ball hits the first baseman’s glove just a beat before the runner sprints past.
Great play! I let out a whoop and drive a fist in the air. Yeah! I drop my hands to my lap and turn to my daughter, who is noticeably less excited than I am. She cocks an eyebrow at me.
I blink and then realize: Right. I was cheering for the wrong team.
It’s really no excuse that both sides have blue-and-red uniforms. You’re either paying attention or your not.
Pfft.
Know what you’re doing, baseball fan. Know what you’re doing