Recently, I had a BBQ that was attended by a lucky few, including a friend of Frenchie's, another French girl named Yvette*. She had the chance to watch an inning of the Yankees/Indians game with me before the party started.
Sitting next to me on my couch, Yvette examined the game in silence for a few minutes, gave me a sideways look when I became vocally displeased after a Yankees' strikeout and finally asked:
"What game is this?"
"The Yankees are playing the Indians. It's the third game in a series of four."
"I see," she said as she looked back at the TV. After a moment. "Where are they playing?"
"At Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. Have you been to a Red Sox game?" I asked because she lives in B*ston.
After another moment staring at the TV she said "is he supposed to hit the ball that he throws before he catches it?" Her finger pointed to each of the "hes" she named.
"Essentially, that is the point, yes. The pitcher throws the ball and the batter tries to hit it. The catcher catches it if the batter doesn't hit it. The batter can choose not to swing at a pitch that he thinks is not a strike." I hoped I was not being more confusing.
"What is a strike?"
"A strike is a pitch that the batter doesn't swing at, that is in a certain area over the plate. The plate is the white thing in front of his feet. A strike can also be given when the batter hits the ball in the wrong direction, which is called a foul."
Teix got a hit. Runners advanced. I cheered.
"Teix got a hit and went to first base, on the right." I looked at her to see if she was following. "The runner on second, which is in the middle, moved to third, on the left. You have four bases to touch in order to score a run. The fourth is called 'home' where the batter starts."
We sat in silence until the inning ends. A commercial came on. It was either for Men's Wearhouse or a truck, I'm sure.
"I don't know anything about soccer. Do you watch a lot of football?" I asked her, hoping I hadn't added to her bewilderment by switching from U.S. to rest-of-the-world name for the sport.
"No. Not really. But the World Cup is coming soon!"
"Is France good this year?" I already knew the answer to this (no), because of Frenchie, but I wanted to spark a discussion.
"I don't know," she laughed.
The game resumed. Indians at bat.
"Now the other team, the Indians, is trying to hit the ball. The Indians are from Cleveland."
I looked at her. She stared, brows knitted, at the TV.
"Cleveland is in Ohio," I continued. "Have you been there?"
"No, I have only been to New York and B*ston, where I live."
She cursed in my home but I let it slide. Our conversation switched to her work in B*ston and after the Indians go down in order, I got up to go to the kitchen to start making hamburger patties.
"Do you want to change the channel?" I asked, offering her the remote.
"Yes, I think I will watch something else," she said as she accepted the remote quickly. She looked back at the TV before she changed it. The game had just resumed, Yankees at bat. I turned to leave.
"I do like their costumes," Yvette said as she changed the channel to Food Network. "Ooh! They are making crêpes!"
It would seem that thin pancakes stuffed with Nutella and jam are more her speed than baseball. How French.
*Not her real name, but my name from French class in 7th grade.
6 hours ago