Sitting along the third-base line Wednesday evening, a cool breeze wafting through Jacobs Field, I think I finally realized why they call baseball the Great American Pastime.

Understand, I'm not much of a baseball fan until the playoffs come around, at which point, I love watching the games. (Actually, the only team I follow regularly are the Buckeyes for football.) But I can't be bothered to sit in front of the TV for three hours 162 times a year, wondering who will make the out.

But actually being there? Now, that's spectacular. I was with a good friend, we were having pleasant conversation, I wasn't studying for the bar or doing anything that looked remotely like work, I was watching world-class athletes ply their trade, I was eating a hot dog (OK, that was a bit of a disappointment -- I went out to get a bratwurst with sauerkraut; they were out of them; so I asked for a coney dog, which they said they gave me, but it turned out to be a plain hot dog, and not a very good one at that, certainly not $3 good), and life was generally good.

I think that's when it occurred to me that Abner Doubleday never intended us to watch his creation on TV. He expected us to spend pleasant summer evenings at the ballpark, with friends, watching baseball players and eating $3 hot dogs that weren't very good. (OK, MLB probably wants you to think Abner wanted us to eat $3 hot dogs that weren't very good.)

Baseball Week will continue for me on Monday, with a trip to watch the Mud Hens on Monday. I don't know who they're playing, but it's not so much who they're playing as what.