I don’t care if it’s major league or not, sometimes a man just wants to sit at the ballpark and enjoy some baseball.

And judging by opening night with The Tides last night, a fair share of women feel the same.

People can say what they want about Norfolk being a AAA city, but the reason I go to a baseball game has nothing to do with glamour. My level of fun is not contingent on how much money the giant men with the gloves and sticks make. I don’t go to a baseball game to believe in heroes or the godly potential of man (or whatever).

I go to baseball games for this:

Those friends shall remain nameless in order to protect the innocent young man to the right with hog heaven in his Twist-happy eyes. But you get my point. That 22-second video tells you everything you need to know about why going to baseball games is possibly the most lovely, charming, good-spirited way a group of adults can spend an evening together.

A boat crossed in right field.

I go to baseball games to be in the fresh air. To remember a game that was one of my first loves. To watch the grass as it grows so lusciously slow. To be a part of my community. Because when you cheer for The Tides, you’re not cheering for some team that, let’s be honest, not a whole lot of people truly care about. You’re rooting for us. You’re sitting side by side with your neighbors and, if only for nine innings, rallying behind a greater cause than the self (even if we all know that “cause” isn’t worth anything without us.)

Sports are paradoxical like that, aren’t they? A country won’t be able to agree on something fundamental and basic–such as the worth of a human life–but when those stadium lights come on, we’re all brothers. It’s utterly fascinating. I’ve seen it myself in still very-divided South Africa. Two people that would never acknowledge each other on the street were all of a sudden ole chums when the Springboks won the rugby World Cup a couple years ago.

And you know what? The world might be by-and-large an ugly place, but that’s beautiful.

One of the best nights of my life was when the Patriots beat the Rams in Superbowl XXXVI. I watched it at a friend’s apartment in Boston. When the Pats won, the city poured into the streets. Cars honking. Dancing. Hugging. Kissing! I remember running down the middle of the street with my buddy Adam. Every single car had their windows rolled down, and open palms emerged from inside, slapping Adam and I five as we sprinted past.

It was surreal. It was magical. It was all because a city decided to allow a sports franchise to represent their collective heart, and that trust was returned in spades.

Ain't that America.

I’m not going to lie: I wish Hampton Roads had just one major league franchise. But there’s also something fantastic about not having pros here. Let’s be real. Major League baseball players are not modern gladiators or part of some other modern violent-erotic fairy tale. My honest opinion? How much Major League baseball players get paid compared to social workers and teachers says something utterly abhorrent about us as a culture. And that the players strut around like they deserve it, and that we idolize them even more because of it, says something even worse. It’s all upside down and turned around.

Good for us for not being a part of that system.

Last night was my first time at a Tides game. I showed up late. I left early. I paid too much for beer, though not that much. I resisted the fried Twinkies. I lost a dollar in a beanbag toss game. I sat in the right field stands. The game was to the left. A Norfolk Southern train passed in the distance. A big ole barge passed on the Elizabeth River to the right. My friend got all Zen-like doing The Twist.

Was that worth $9.50?

Yeah, I’d say so.