Fighting the commotion of 100’s of people funneling through turnstiles, you shuffle through the mob. By now, you’ve missed the first pitch. Slowly you climb to your ever-comfortable stadium seat—in the optimal back row of left field. Pinstripe pants, knee socks, and oversized T-shirt jerseys dot the grassy clay diamond. Sunglasses help little against the gleaming sunrays that leave a red brand along the edge of your shorts, jumpstarting an uneven summer tan. Faces shadowed by ball caps focus intently on the umpire and their catcher. Crass and paunchy, your neighbor successfully spills his nacho cheese sauce in your lap and knocks over your coke. Great. Player #47 steps up to bat, taping home plate, stretching his shoulders, and smacking his gum. From the pitcher’s mound comes a glare a subtle signal, a ball hurling just out of reach. Strike three. Bottom of the sixth inning: dinnertime. Sticky with sloshed beer and dissolving cotton candy, the concrete smacks with hundreds of flip-flops pushing, shoving; the lines at the concession stand are an hour long. Booming speakers add to the incessant noise, screeching with 5seconds of a familiar tune and a mumbled rundown of the game. Still no one has scored.