monshu was so kind in acquiesing to my desire to watch the games at his place tonight. (Fortunately,
The West Wing is in reruns all week, so love did not actually have to be put to the test.) He made what he considers "baseball food"--red hots with baked beans--but couldn't bring himself to buy beer. "I don't know what you like," he pleaded, despite having bought me dozens in our years together (most recently just last Sunday).
We caught the NLCS game just in time to see it go into extra innings.
monshu watched from the dinner table as I cheered, groaned, gloated, danced about, and basically made a fool of myself. "It's amusing to see you so
jocky," he said, delighted. I tried to draw him in by explaining what tiny crumbs of insight I could gather and soon realised I needed to get remedial. "How many strikes make an out?" I asked him. He stared at me blankly and shrugged. I gaped at him and said, "Now that's not gay, that's just
stoopid!" I mean,
they named a law after it! Who would have believed that I'd ever be in the situation of knowing more about baseball than another native-born American male? So on top of having to sit through four innings of an actual game (yay Cards!), he had to put up with my simplistic summary of the rules of play.
No wonder he turned in early.
( Pillowtalk! )