What in the World? This is getting Serie-ous.

So it turns out this thing has been going on since 1903 which means they had to sit around a wood-burning TV to root for their team. We watch it every year whether or not we’ve ever been near the home stadiums, or ever heard of a single player on either team. It’s just the American thing to do, like putting marshmallows on sweet potatoes or reading condensed Reader’s Digest books at Meemaw’s house. 

We watch the World Series. 

So this time it’s the Brewers against the Rays. It’s a hard choice for me to know who to pull for because I like coffee (especially when it tastes American like sweet potatoes with marshmallows), and I have a favorite cousin named Ray. 

I decided to go for the Rays. Figures. We’re at game four, and by now the Rays have pretty much given up, and fully three out of four of them truly thought they were at a craft bazaar last night, and not a ballgame at all. 

I have a lot at stake here. Our kids and in-laws and everybody text each other our predictions. We have a competitive streak in us as wide as the Panama Canal at its widest (which is exactly my hip size the day after Thanksgiving), and so it's very important to win this thing. The winner is supposed to get a Reese’s candy bar – I mean two cups thing – but we usually forget to follow through with that. Like, we have a score on that which matches the Rays’ score last night. One time remembered to 10 times forgotten. 

Still, I mean to win with everything I’ve got invested, which is two less Reese’s cups than the prize pot. 

I said Rays in seven.

Stop. It could happen. Don’t forget to factor in the home-field advantage, the fact that bats swing harder on Tuesdays (“Wooden Bats Almanac”, p. 172), and the importance of the square root of the distance between home plate and the Panama Canal. These are all well-known by commentators who also can tell you which bases were stolen by more players on their actual birthdays.

By the way, I have always shouted that this is the whole problem! If the bases are STOLEN, how can we even expect to have a fair game when the bases aren’t even there anymore? 

As you can see, we have become experts at the sport of World Series Watching over the years. My parents handed it down. Back in the days they watched, each game went on for what seemed like four Christmases. They played about 71 innings, and you could drive a barge between pitches, so that by the time you got in bed after a game, your wake-up alarm was on its fifth snooze round. 

My parents would hang with it, even in old age. It’s the American thing to do. Once in the wee-hours of the morning, I think the Cardinals had a comeback with three runners on base, and two at the craft bazaar. When the clean-up batter’s ball cleared the fence, my parents started yelling and running laps around the living room like Bob Barker had handed them the keys to a Winnebago.

The neighbors called the cops about a domestic squabble in the middle of the night. Is it really worth the Reese’s cups?

I don’t know, but we watch for the sake of tradition, nostalgia, and a chance to see someone get arrested for parachuting on the field. It’s also about eating cookies and laughing at Mookies. All in all, it beats a condensed Reader’s Digest book. 

Granted, I don’t have a solid strategy for picking winners, but If you knew my cousin Ray, you’d go with that name, too.