I wish I was one of those bad ass girls who knows everything about sports.

I know nothing and wish to know nothing about football, a game that enthrall millions but looks like a kind of slug fest to me. Soccer recently inflamed the passions of the public with the whole World Cup extravaganza, but I still know nothing about the sport. During the World Cup, Hollaback Girl was visiting. She and Fang engaged in an animated dialogue about the intricacies of the game, with a detailed focus on offsides. I tried to listen and learn, I really did, but they might as well have been speaking Portuguese. And even basketball, a game I played center for when I was in high school, has completely lost my interest. So when it comes down to it, if there's any sport worth embracing, the obvious choice is baseball.

Compared to every other sport populating the 12 tiered channels of ESPN, baseball is the most satisfying sport to enjoy in every medium: on TV, in person or hearing the play by play on the radio. It's summer, it's lazy days, it's life at its' everyman best.

But it's not just the game itself that lends to this enjoyment. It's the experience.

Going to a baseball park on a sunny Sunday afternoon is part of the American mythology. Fabled places like Wrigley Field, Fenway Park and the old Comiskey Field offer the spectator a liberal view of the playing field, with its lush expanse of lawn and wide open view to the heavens. It's a game that invites you to fully participate and we come with mitts to catch the errant foul balls and statistic sheets to calculate player RBIs.

While the jumbotron gently reminds the spectators to mind one's language in the stands, yelling at the umpire is de rigeur. The moment the first bad call is issued, you must be on your feet, fist pumped in the air, steely eyes affixed to home base and the words ripping from your throat like a battle cry: "Bullshit! You suck!" It's a rite of passage.

I am dubious about the introduction of foodstuffs like sushi and falafel at the ballpark. This is sacrilegious. There are only three food items that should be consumed at a baseball game: Tap beer, peanuts in their shells (in a paper bag if available) and polish dogs. I try all three at every ballpark I have ever gone to and the best I've ever had was at the old Candlestick Park in San Francisco. The polish dog with its chewy seeded bun and thick brown mustard was sublime.

And don't you adore the 7th inning stretch? I love that people rise slowly to their feet to sing and stretch and scratch their bellies and just be in the moment with their baseball. How American is that?

In New York, most people arbitrarily assume every living, breathing resident of Gotham is a Yankees fan. While I appreciate the history of the franchise and it's storied heroes (Ruth, Gehrig, Maris, Mantle and DiMaggio to name but a few), the current incarnation and its' fans seem a smug lot. Yes, they have a plethora of pennant wins and more than a few World Series trophies on their mantle, but their overpaid roster of players and their status as the kings of baseball's first century moves me not at all. Simply, I'm a National League Girl all the way.

As a long time San Francisco Giants fan and now a convert to the New York Mets, I turn my nose up at the posturing of an A-Rod or Derek Jeter. The Mets are like us, blue collar schlubs, who have labored in vain to grasp the gold ring, sometimes coming close, but more often that not falling short and suffering the indignities of hurled insults and derision. In those years, they screwed the proverbial pooch and often. But like all well meaning schlubs, we love them anyway because the boys had heart.

The post season is fast approaching and the scrappy boys in orange and blue look poised to replicate the exhilaration that was the 1969 miracle season. I'm breathless with anticipation.