This is what it’s all about. The crack of the bat. The crisp summer air. The camaraderie of old friends on a beautiful new day.

These are all experiences I can’t wait to enjoy for myself as soon as I’m done waiting in line for a fourteen-dollar hot dog.

You can feel the triumphant swell of patriotism as we are called to rise for the national anthem. If you listen closely, can you hear our forefathers singing the very same melody as they, too, delighted in our national pastime?

I’m legitimately asking. Can you hear that? I am still in line for that hot dog.

No matter. Because soon after the game begins, another beautiful sound engulfs the park: CLINK! And then: the unmistakable, deafening roar of a stadium packed with delighted fans.

Simultaneously, another sound. The sound of me saying “fuck.”

Because I definitely just missed something super awesome. Because I am now in the ketchup line. Because, for some reason, that is completely separate from the hot-dog line.

In the time that it takes to return from the ketchup line to section 317, three more innings pass. Thankfully, the stadium has piped in the announcers from the radio broadcast, so I can hear the play-by-play. I don’t catch most of the details, but I do hear the phrase “Everyone will remember where they were when they witnessed this amazing game.”

At long last, I take my seat. My wife wants popcorn. I rise again.

Moments after I turn my back on the field, everyone in my section leaps to their feet, mouths agape. The men are brought to tears. The women faint in shock. Children of all genders visibly form core memories. I turn around at the top of the stairs.

“Wow,” I think to myself as I squint at the diamond. “I’m picking up a vibe that something good happened.”

Over the next couple of innings, our pitcher dramatically strikes out every star player in the opponent’s lineup. At this time, I am actually not in the popcorn line. But that is because the popcorn line has been placed at this stadium’s pole of inaccessibility—the furthest location that it can possibly be from my seat while still technically residing within the stadium. Google Maps recommends I take the bus to the ferry to the escalator. Or I can walk, but in that case, the little walking guy icon above the estimated time has the hiking stick.

During my seventy-two-minute round-trip journey, I receive text updates that my favorite player on my team has hit a grand slam, my most detested players on the rival team were the victims of a triple play, and that my infant son has spoken his first full sentence: “Where is Dada?” This is followed by his second sentence: “Whoever he is, that guy is seriously missing out; what a game.”

I return and take my seat once more. It’s time for the seventh-inning stretch. In getting up, my body decides that I have to go to the bathroom more intensely than ever before in my life.

I sprint to the men’s room and back. The game is now two hours into extra innings.

My family is in agreement on two things: This is perhaps the greatest summer day that any of them could have ever dreamed of spending together, and also that it would be amazing if I could go grab a sweet treat.

In the sweet treat line, I receive several push notifications. My team has won the game, made it to the playoffs, and prevailed in the World Series. Everyone I have ever met got to skip work and school to attend the celebratory ticker-tape parade. My son has grown up, been signed to the MLB, and is absolutely dominating as a shortstop for the Yankees. He has also written a viral confessional essay for The Cut about how his father’s abandonment at a young age meant that his coaches had to fill the gap.

I think about how it will all be worth it when I get my ice-cream sundae in the souvenir hat.

I get to the front of the line.

They are out of the ice-cream sundae in the souvenir hat.

I ask for another hot dog instead. Due to inflation, it is now thirty-seven dollars. This is what it’s all about.