Soccer sticks?

We are not a particularly athletic family. In fact, "not particularly athletic" might just be mega-understatement when applied to this Wells-Anderson combination. My junior high volleyball coach would honestly laugh whenever she put me onto the court.
And considering John's open antipathy to most organized team sports, we are lucky that our girls acknowledge sports exist at all.
However, when an evening of beautiful weather is combined with free baseball tickets and a hot dog dinner, we are in. Which is why we were found at a South Bend Silverhawks game, hosted by Memorial Medical Group.

We ate some chicken and hot dogs in a box (A box!), and then we headed down to find some seats to cheer our team on to victory. (As a note, I want to point out that I love to watch baseball. It's not too fast, like a basketball game. It's not SO SLOW, like football can be. And--this is really the clincher--it's absolutely chuck full of numbers. Numbers that they flash all over those Jumbotrons. So many fun numbers.) This is where I was struck again with our athletic incompetence. Because, when Mimi asked me "Which team is our team?" (a perfectly reasonable question), she added "Are we the guys with the soccer sticks?"

Yes, Mimi, we are the guys with the soccer sticks. Except we call them baseball bats.

This is how a crazed new reader cheers for the "Silverhocks." (Because a crazed new reader brings a notebook, pencil, and crayons wherever she goes.)

And this is one of the ways an almost-two-year old entertains herself during a baseball game. (Actually, she alternates laying on the concrete and coloring with bugging the blond teenager ahead of us by patting his back and calling him "Uncle Dallin.")

We were lucky to meet our good friends the Masons while we were watching the game itself.

And four little girls can enjoy at least six innings of a baseball game by making repeated trips to the bathroom and drinking fountain.
So, for all you non-athletes out there, don't pass up trips to the ballpark.