I’m not big on watching competitive sports. The Super Bowl game, to me, is my commercial break from actual commercials, my opportunity to snag buffalo chicken dip seconds. I do enjoy hockey games, if for my quirky enjoyment of its cross section between beautifully orchestrated skating and fist-fights. Otherwise, I’m an arts-and-music kind of gal.

Except for baseball.

Baseball is something else. There is something intrinsically enchanting about going to a ball game.

Perhaps my fascination with the sport stems from having grown up during a generation that loved movies about magic and baseball and all the good feelings.

Films that dominated such as ‘The Sandlot’, ‘Rookie of the Year’, and ‘Angels in the Outfield’ could line a field of movie dreams.

What other sport demands spectators burst into Neil Diamond song?

Who doesn’t feel astonishingly patriotic shouting the words to the animated “Take me out to the Ball Game” at the top of their lungs?

When I sing it, for the moment I truly and sincerely don’t care if I ever get back.

But as much as I enjoy the thrill of watching the sport, I don’t understand baseball’s rules a fraction as much as my husband does.

From his Little League days to keeping book and beyond, he’s long understood every play.

I enjoy the atmosphere, the ice cream sandwiches and hot dogs, the inexplicable old-timey magic that washes over me that feels as though I’ve stepped into the 1940s.

Whether we’re basking under ball caps in the hot sun or under the glow of a night game’s lights, enjoying the classic sport widely known as America’s pastime just makes me feel good.

It feels like only yesterday I was attending games when my husband and I were first dating; he was working in the audio visual field at the baseball field, filming for our state’s minor league team and doing occasional voiceover.

And though we hadn’t recently attended a game for a few years, we took our boys last weekend to their first minor league game– and hit it out of the park.

The experience brought back those nostalgic feelings for my husband and me, and we wondered if our kiddos would feel the same.

Would they be up to the game as each player went up to bat?

Unlike other sports, baseball’s not exactly action-packed, save for the occasional home run, base steal, or kooky mascot dance.

We came prepared with the usual equipment we typically bring to church or events in which the tots need to stay put– snacks, books, dinosaur toys.

At times, the boys weren’t very excited. Our eldest yawned intermittently from beneath his ball cap .

We had to point out every little play and explain each detail.

The pace at times left much to be desired, our boys restlessly shifted their weight like batters awaiting a pitch.

But after a time, I sensed that they were slowly inching toward that same awe and wonder and magic of the game that my husband and I had.

As the pitch clock seconds tick-tocked, our boys became a bit more entranced.

That evening, I pulled a creased souvenir baseball card from my pocket and quietly left it on our counter.

I had held it for our 4-year-old during the game, and one side was emblazoned with a photo of the team’s mascot.

Our son instantly came running and plucked it up, holding it out with his eyes open wide, exclaiming how much he loved the game.

So perhaps we’d planted a seed of the love of the game that day.

Maybe, just maybe, we’d scored a home run after all.

— Michelle Cote is the art director of the Journal Tribune. She enjoys cooking, baking, and living room dance-offs with her husband, two boys and a dog. She can be contacted at mcote@journaltribune.com.

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