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Before Los Alamos’ Day at the Isotopes stadium, the last baseball game I attended was in Havana, Cuba.
It felt a little surreal watching America’s favorite pastime in a foreign country. None of the sights I had grown accustomed to at a ball field were visible. There were no spectators sipping beer or munching on hot dogs and the stadium was completely bare of a glitzy scoreboard with dancing lights and electronic sounds.
Even though my companions managed to get the crowd to do the wave, I still felt like an outsider. I didn’t know the locals’ popular chants or common practices for going to a ballgame.
Attending the Isotopes’ game a couple of weeks ago brought me back to familiar turf. Whenever the crowd would cheer on a player or sing along to “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” it was as though we were all united.
I loved watching a sea of hands stretch excitedly in the air, hoping to catch a fly ball. It was also endearing to observe young boys lean over the Isotopes’ dugout, asking for an autograph or some similar priceless souvenir.
No matter the country, the details of baseball are a mystery to me. As a result, I never pay much attention to a player’s batting average or how well he performs in the field.
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