Baseball season has started again.
It started last Sunday. Each year I become a "baseball widow" around this time of the year, as Kris goes off to spend time with his mistress (her name is MLB).
I resist learning about baseball. I tolerate his watching so much because it means I can work on my own projects with little guilt about not spending the time with Kris. I'm sure Kris would love if I were an avid baseball fan, but I'm not, and don't plan on being so any time soon. I can count the number of live games I've been to in my lifetime on one hand, and the number of those I've enjoyed on the number of penises attached to my body.
I've learned more than I care to learn about baseball, but I still get many terms mixed up. Take, for example, the high cheese ball.
In reality, there's the high cheese, which is a pitched ball that blows right by the batter. Often said as, "Wow, that was some high cheese."
And there's the high fast ball, which is a pitched ball that comes in at the top of the strike zone, really really quickly.
Technically, there is no high cheese ball, but I use the term generously.
There's also home base. Or the in-field homerun. Close, but they make Kris cringe every time I use the terms.
Good thing I don't discuss the high cheese ball hit over home-base for the in-field homerun. I might become a divorcee instead of a widow.