Whatever, Reader

Image property of MLB.com In 2003, I don't remember what the hell I was doing. I was still in high school, in hot pursuit of the American Dream. The important things were good grades, explosive charisma, and whatever extracurriculars I had chosen. I didn't watch baseball. While it appealed to me here and there, I knew little beyond a handful of names on trading cards and a few viewings of the World Series. It wasn't important.  I couldn't distinguish between a sinking curveball and a sailing 4-seamer, let alone when to use either, or against whom. Showboating? Don't b atters just get beaned by accident? I asked, blind to the whirlwind of signals coming from the dugout as the base coach patted his chest, chin, chest, chin, left bicep, right wrist, chin, sweep some dust off the left forearm. No, i f baseball were a food, I was savoring a bag of Mediterranean Oil potato chips in a room full of Italian chefs. It's  an acquired taste, and until you chance