Tonight is the showcase of baseball, the All-Star game. The best our game has to offer (minus Cal Eldred) will go out tonight and play an exhibition game for the benefit of fans everywhere, and I’ll love it.

While I can’t quite quote Jaquin Andujar’s 1983 E.R.A. or Candy Maldonado’s career RBI total, I can safely say that I am a fan of the game. It’s America’s pastime and as Terrance Mann once said, “the one constant through all the years.”

When I think of baseball, I think of the days when I was 10 years old. Every day was sunny, the grass was green and my dad and I would play catch every night when he got home from work. There were no chemistry labs or girlfriends to worry about, as the biggest concern was whether a ball hit into the sycamore tree counted as a double or a homerun.

Baseball serves as a constant reminder of those days for me.

Those are the days that nearly everyone has experienced. They are the ones that are peaceful and beautiful, and we’d lock ourselves in them for the rest of our lives if we could. And mine, like so many other people, involved baseball.

It doesn’t matter how high you can jump or how much you can bench press, if you can turn a double play or bat .300, there’s a place for you. It gave us all something to dream about when we were little kids, and often it was going to be our career choice.

Not that the Yankees needed another center fielder, but my services were always ready just in case.

As I’ve discovered that there’s no room for 68 m.p.h. fastball and hanging curveball in the show, I’ve had to give up some of those dreams, but I still love talking about it.

There is always a part of baseball that my friends and I can argue about. Whether it is who has the greatest baseball name ever or what Ted Williams would do to today’s pitching, there is always a debate, a story or a statistic to throw out. Fist fights have been known to break out over whether Mike Schmidt was a better third baseman than George Brett (by the way, he was).

In baseball, we count everything, and what you get is an amazing history. There are still records held by men who played before the turn of the century, and I don’t mean 2000. And that’s what makes this our national pastime. The history, the dreams, the memories.

My favorite part of baseball is that it has a second language. It is the only game that features dying quails, Mendoza lines and cans of corn. There are gopher balls, Baltimore chops and pepper games. Grown men can actually carry on a conversation with a straight face while using the term “backdoor slider.” Being a professional table setter is a good thing, and Uncle Charlie is not the weird guy at the family reunions.

It is very silly and odd how some of these things get their names, but don’t worry about it. Just say the word “fungo” and see if it puts a smile on your face.

While baseball lacks a certain edge that seems to be necessary for so many people today, a baseball game provides just the opposite. It’s relaxing. Who wouldn’t want to spend three hours with a friend and take in a game? Parents and children split cotton candy and talk about not just baseball, but life. Dads tell their kids about what position their grandpa played. Kids ask their parents how a curveball breaks.

It’s almost like an outdoor dinner table, baseball is the focus, but if the conversation drifts away, it’s not a big deal. There are no chants of dee-fence or first down, so you have to rely on actually talking to your neighbor for entertainment. It sounds weird, but trust me, try talking to the person you are with and you will like it.

So tonight, I will be perched in front of my TV, watching Nomar and Pudge, Barry and Randy. I’ll even stick around for Bob Wickman and Jorge Posada to get into the game. And for three hours, I’ll be 10 years old again.

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Matt Craft is a senior in secondary education from La Porte City. Gus Sinski is the greatest baseball name of all time.