I’m having a bout with insomnia so I was sitting up last Wednesday, watching Game 3 of the World Series between the White Sox and Angels and wondered why I just didn’t care who won.

The hours and innings passed and, finally, at about 2:30 a.m. I turned off the T.V. after the White Sox had won. It had been the longest game in World Series history. The players were spent, to say the least, having exhausted every effort to get a win. Still, I had no feelings.

Even more remarkable was that the teams would have to play again later that evening. The White Sox ended up winning the World Series, its first in 88 years, and you know what? I could care less.

I’m not the biggest baseball fan, I admit that. But during the playoffs, any sports lover can’t help watching. It’s during the playoffs that you see the best baseball. That’s when you understand the beauty of it and appreciate the skill.

My first memory of the sport was of my grandfather watching baseball in his bedroom on his black-and-white television or listening to the game through an open window while sitting in ’his chair’ on the front porch. There were two things that were constant in his household, baseball and Coca-Cola. I’d ask him to tell me about the game and he would shush me and turn the volume up. I’d walk away mumbling something about hating baseball anyway.

My second memory of baseball was getting knocked out after by sister aimlessly swung a bat during a backyard game. I was the short stop and was standing behind her as she stepped up to the plate. For some reason, we were playing with a beautiful, hefty steel bat. The first pitch was thrown, and she missed. The second pitch was thrown, and she missed again. The third pitch she hit with the fury of a professional player, and then commenced to follow through with the swing and release the bat directly in my eye.

As I lay there, on the ground, I thought about how I didn’t really like baseball anyway and how I’d never play again. After a trip to the emergency room, I watched the kids in the neighborhood play baseball the next day, with one good eye and the other swollen shut. For me, the thrill of baseball was gone.

Now, I kinda think of the ending of baseball as more time that can be devoted to football. Still, I try to appreciate the stories it brings — the triumphs and defeats. Last year I reveled in Boston’s win.

I watched the postgame show with grown men crying, champagne flying and the passing around of the World Series trophy. For some reason there was more feeling in that series, even though the two clubs accomplished similar feats.

This year, I feel nothing.

As is human nature, I ponder who or what is to blame for my attitude toward baseball. I can’t blame my grandfather; I was too young to realize kids shouldn’t ask their granddad to explain the game when his team is down by two runs in the eighth.

I can’t even blame my sister though part of me felt like she meant to hit me as a part of her big sister torture ritual. She fell on an old cart with a piece of rusty iron protruding from it a week later and I felt vindicated. It almost went through her thigh.

However, I will blame the Atlanta Braves and their letting Southern fans down year after year. Face it, had the Braves been one of the World Series teams, we all would’ve cared.

*T&D Sports Editor Charlene Slaughter can be reached by e-mail at cslaughter@timesanddemocrat.com or by phone at 803-533-5529.

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