It feels like an impoprtant night. I took my seven-year-old grandson, Jaedon, to his first professional baseball game tonight. It was a single-A game of the Lake Elsinore Storm, where we live. The stadium, which can seat 6,000-plus, is really nice (usually voted among the best minor-league stadiums in the country, including Triple-A. The Storm is a minor-league affiliate of the San Diego Padres, and they were playing the Lancaster Jethawks, a farm team of the Boston Red Sox.
The most important thing is that Jaedon had a good time and he's ready to go again. It was nice that the Storm won (amazing how quickly Jaedon identified with a home tyeam he hadn'e heard of until today) 6-3, and nice that it was a well-played game. Grandma thought he might have been ready to leave about the sixth inning, but he wanted to stay to the and (it helped that there were fireworks).
Neither of my sons is all that interested in sports, so I guess it's up to me to introduce my grandsons to the superficial passions of the typical American male. Good time had by all.