I don’t think my dog liked baseball.
He just liked to sit with me.
We’d lounge on a futon, analyzing prospects in spring training.
He’d curl up on a blanket, then take my seat if I left for a second.
(If he didn’t follow me, that is. His arthritis made jumping difficult, so I carried him up and down the steps.)
And we loved to study each inning of the Ken Burns’ Baseball series.
He liked the 60s.
Sometimes we’d sit and read the paper to find out who had two doubles last night.
We knew it was Matt Carpenter, but it was a good reason to rest.
Twister would rest his head on the page.
Maybe he was nearsighted.
And we’d listen to games on the radio, Mike Shannon cackling from St. Louis.
Twister and I would just sit.