Would anyone like some pie?

Home Run Derby night in my house has always been a total drag.

My dad will say he doesn't want to watch it and that my mother and I should watch "something we want to watch."
Come on.
Home Run Derby is the first night of an Epic Man Week, which come only a few times a year (these other Epic Weeks include, of course, World Series Week, Superbowl Anticipation Week, and [Insert Sport Here] Draft Week).
"Watch something you guys want to watch."
He doesn't actually mean that.
He means, "Please put on the home run derby and don't ask questions."
Don't ask questions.

Ever since I was a kid, I was told that asking questions were the best way to learn. Unfortunately, being the precocious pain in the ass that I am/was, I never stopped asking questions.
Most of these were stupid, inconsequential things, asked only to feed my limited knowledge of a sport that brought me closer to my male classmates.
As a short, squat, fifth grade pre-pubescent ten year old with heavy dark bangs and a deep love of multi colored scrunchies, the only thing bringing me closer to eleven year old, super cute red-headed Patrick were the Mets. I had found that in my ten years on earth that I could sing, play the violin, understand most college level novels, and pitch a mean underhand. Patrick didn't seem interested in my singing (read as: wailing) ability, feigned virtuosity, or book choices on the Magic Reading Carpet, but he did think it was "cool" that I played softball after Student Council three times a week.
So I asked my dad questions, and went to school filled with facts about Mike Piazza, causing Patrick to say things like "You're cooler than I thought." This, to a ten year old, is basically the same as saying "I love you."

My brother usually spends the night of the Home Run Derby at a friends house. After arriving home at a ridiculous hour, covered in sweat and screaming loudly in a language that can't be English, I can't help but loathe these muscle heads. "Hot Dogs," my dad calls them.
Frankly, I just think it's cool that they can hit the ball so damn far.
Simple as that.
Watch the players kids on the field - every time Pujols hit a home run his little son jumped up and down, yelling for his dad.

This year, Joe decided to watch the Derby at home.
My mother, of course, broke the cardinal rule of Sports Watching At Home* and sent my dad to bed early and made Joe go check his bag for the twentieth time for college orientation tomorrow.
Other than that, it was fairly quiet - No yelling from Joe (except for the barely inaudible screams as he continuously rose from the couch to trek up the stairs to look for travel sized toothpaste, deodorant, etc. etc. GAG), I didn't ask too many questions (Patrick now being my boyfriend I didn't have to impress him anymore), and the television was kept at a fairly low volume level.

Strange, this year.
Very strange.


*This of course being "Do Not Interrupt Anyone While Watching a Game/Event."