At last, the inaugural day had arrived for a trip to the old ballfield.

The sun shone. Birds tweeted their territorial claims and sought nesting partners. Below them, umps were dressed in their ump clothes. They had used the regulation number of Visine drops before taking to the diamond. Congenial folks manned the concession stand with cold drinks, hot dogs and Red Vines, and the requisite number of team players were suited up and ready to “Play ball!” I took comfort in knowing this was happening all over the country where the fields weren’t buried under snow — high schools and colleges populating the AstroTurf for an early season game.

I always look forward to witnessing my first pitch of the season, not that I attend that many games. I’m sentimental over baseball, but I am an unashamed fair weather fan. The afternoon shone bright for catching a few innings’ worth of cracks and tags and I did have a favorite team.

While knowing it was a 3-mile-long shot, I asked Denise to join me. After all, what fun is sitting at a baseball game au solitaire? I knew she was still in mid-celebration mode of her March Madness birthday festival and thought it might add to the revelry. Now, to say that Denise is not a sports fan is the triple Whopper with bacon and cheese of understatements. I offered to drive, plied her with a promise of peanuts and Cracker Jack, and she agreed for the sake of novelty. I didn’t care if I ever got back, but she had to return by 7 p.m.

Denise’s husband Jerry, who is recovering from knee surgery and unable to join us, wished her well and advised her to have me explain the game, knowing how far afield her thoughts are toward athletics. He was concerned about her getting beaned on the head with a fly ball but stopped short of sending her out with a helmet and catcher’s mitt, thank goodness. She assured him she knew the elements of the game, and I was happy to fill in the gaps. I was impressed when she remarked after a solid hit toward left field that it was nice placement — her vocabulary not entirely void of baseball nomenclature and technique.

I thought I’d come prepared. I’d packed sunscreen, sunglasses, a cap of the baseball variety, apple chunks for snacking, a deck of cards, nail file and water bottle. But after about seven minutes of sitting in bare bleacher heat and wondering where everybody was, I turned around to see a platoon of people who had brought lawn chairs and sat stationed on a berm in the shade. They looked calm, cool and smug. Denise and I changed locations a couple of times but the sun maintained its dominant position.

We soon ran out of root, root, root as we watched the score ratchet up, up, up for our home team. I began pulling for the other team. Fellow spectators extracted their knitting. Nobody was even accusing the ump of being cross-eyed. Team names aren’t important to this story, as when we left during the third inning, the scoreboard blazed 20-zip in our favor following a nice grand slam. I realize with baseball, things can change quickly when bats get hot and inspire a tear of runs, but it was a chance we took. I’m not sure we filled 23 minutes at the old ball park, otherwise known as the Lithia & Driveway Fields, an excellent facility with well-maintained playing surfaces.

There was nothing left but to locate a nearby winery and discuss in detail the plays of the game by inning and player over a glass of Amethyst — a delicious, multi-personality red blend we discovered at Stone River Vineyards in Talent. It was a solid home run. But don’t misunderstand, I have an affinity for our national sport, provided there’s shade and snacks.

Next time, I’ll pack the chair, an umbrella, two novels, a crossword puzzle and a kazoo and sit out the entire double-header. Mm, could be.