I'm 40 years old and in just four days, I will be sitting in Section 119, Row R, Seat 7 of Arvest Stadium to watch my first ever baseball game, the Northwest Arkansas Naturals versus the Corpus Cristi Hooks, along with my beer-chugging wife and kid. Mrs. DMG is getting stoked, too. "What sport is it we're going to see?" she asks. I say baseball and she returns a blank stare as if I had said jai alai or lacrosse. I regret that I won't be able to explain much as we watch the strange and enigmatic game, but I'm sure we'll both enjoy it ignorant as we are to the rules and objectives of the whole affair. My boy does have some understanding of baseball, well, of softball anyway. He knows that when people are playing softball at Tyson Park we are not free to roam from dugout to dugout drawing pictures of kayaks in the dust. Dugouts have the best dust! Other than that, softball seems to have escaped him just as it has escaped me. But no matter, maybe we'll catch what I know to be called a foul ball (I do know something about baseball; it's not like I was raised by Mormons or something!), though I won't be bringing one of those webbed cowhide things baseball players put on their hands just to prepare for that eventuality. But yeah, my boy is also getting stoked about seeing his first baseball game a full 34 years earlier in his life than me in mine. We're winding him up about it but at the same time being very careful not to mention that there will also be fireworks after the game, which I should not have just written because the wife and I both harbor this silent suspicion the little shit knows how to read already and is playing us both like chumps.