Jonas Valanciunas sat on his couch, dozens upon dozens of throw pillows scattered upon the cushions. He had achieved optimal comfiness levels by augmenting the pillows with a soft blanket and a twelve-pack of Heineken, but these material comforts shed no light on the action that was unfolding on his TV screen.
“You have to run to the next base! How you score if you just stand while ball thrower waits to throw ball? Run!”
The Blue Jays player onscreen did not heed Jonas’ advice, and instead waited antsily at first base for a pitch to be thrown. When the ball was hit into the outfield, Jonas forgot all about the man at first and instead offered wisdom on this new development. A nearly-full bag of ketchup-flavored potato chips was cast heedlessly to the ground as the tall Lithuanian gestured excitedly at his TV. “He hit it! He hit ball! How many points we get? Is that touchdown? NOOO! Don’t walk back to bench! You hit ball! Inning over? The refs hate Toronto, we should get more throws, other team gets twice amount of throws to them as we do!”
Jonas’ cat, Arvydas, had trundled over to sniff at the potato chips which now decorated Jonas’ carpet. The cat was interrupted, however, by Jonas’ large hands picking him up off the ground. “Arvydas, this baseball I think was not meant to be enjoyed by Europeans. The rules have no sense.”
Arvydas meowed, wanting to be let down. Instead, Jonas sat back on the couch with the cat cradled in his arms like a baby. “Baseball so boring. Daddy gets sleepy,” he murmured, stroking Arvydas’ fur. “How can Blue Jays be in American League if Toronto in Canada? People here are stupider than Lithuania, very much.”
Jonas wearily watched one more at-bat, but he could not muster even perfunctory enthusiasm when the Kansas City player was struck out. Soon, his head was drooped to the side, and soft snores emanated from his sleeping form.