Watching baseball with the women of the house is a treat. You never can anticipate what they're going to say. Especially Mom.
(after the camera switches from the back view of Ichiro, who's warming up on deck, to the batter)
"Ichiro doesn't look Japanese anymore."
"Huh?"
"He looks black."
"Mom, that's Adam Jones."
"Oh."
(after several minutes of merciless ribbing, and another choke-strikeout by Adrian Beltre)
"Is Adrian Beltre the pitcher?"
"No, Mom. In the American League, pitchers don't bat."
"They don't?"
"No."
"Then why did Ichiro bat?"
"Mom, Ichiro isn't a pitcher."
"He isn't? I thought he was."
"Did you see Ichiro pitch anytime today?"
"No."
(my younger sister, at another point, observes as the Red Sox pitcher throws it in the dirt)
"That's a ground pitch."
"Yes," I say, "Also known as a 'lander,' 'cause it scoots along the land."
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