Patriot

“We need a pitcher not a belly itcher!” Came the yells from the freckled boys sitting next to us. I looked to the two year old sitting on my lap expecting her to repeat, she didn’t she was enthralled by the cup holders and their holder-ness. I love watching baseball, but only at the stadium. Put one on TV and it’s strictly Yawnsville. Baseball moves at a speed designed for swigging beer and munching nachos. Plus the game starts with the whole crowd belting out the national anthem, hats in hands and over hearts, young and old, bearded chin or botoxed brows we all sing together in earnest. It makes me cry every time – every time. I’m not one who cries at movies easily or even upon a reading those Chicken Soup for the Soul books – but damn if a crowd of people singing the The Star Spangled Banner does turn my into a soppy mess before the rockets red glare. I have no explanation for this – none. All I know is if I were ever acting in a movie I wouldn’t need those eye drops to help me cry and I wouldn’t need the director to make me think about something sad I would just need the camera crew to sing.