My mother, as I have written many times before, knows and cares nothing about baseball. She used to care nothing of any sport outside of the Olympics, but in recent years she has become more interested in these silly games, and every now and again she will want to talk about Tiger Woods or LeBron James or some college basketball team or one of the athletes on Dancing with the Stars ("That Emmitt Smith is a pretty good dancer") or one of the people on one of the various poker tours -- she knows way more than I do about the various poker tours.
Baseball, though, remains a mystery to her, and I suspect it always will.
Mom has become famous among my circle of friends for the time when she read an early baseball story of mine and said, "It was a good story. But one question. Who are YOU to say that it was an unearned run? Who are YOU to decide that the run wasn't earned?" It's actually a much deeper question than I realized at the time -- really, if you think about it in the larger context, what IS an unearned run? -- but the main point is that my mother never cared for baseball, never connected with it, never thought it was worth her time ...
… except for a few months in 1976.