SEATTLE

I DON’T SPEAK the language of sports. Though I am not exactly shunned for my sacrilege, many consider this gap when sizing me up. I am other. I am incapable of appreciating athletic contests, and do not understand the fuss, the excitement, the heartache, the nuances, rules and jargon associated with tossing the old pig skin. When such subjects are the topic of conversation, I often feel I’m a visitor to some exotic land where natives are trying to speak to me about urgent matters, only to discover I am unable to comprehend. Pretty soon, my associates wander off, a little frustrated, somewhat bemused, often irritated. I’m the fool who has not been able to grasp the significance of yesterday’s player trade.

This is a life-long problem. In school, teachers and students often discussed sporting events. They seemed equals — 12-year-olds advancing facts and opinions with conviction never displayed when class was in session. The dumbest kid in math might have been the smartest, or at least most compelling, when talk turned to baseball statistics. I remained silent until the subject changed.

In the military, enlisted men and officers lived in different worlds — separate clubs, separate dining facilities, strict rules segregating swabbies from officers and gentlemen. This firewall prevailed during war and peace, but not during sports-focused bull sessions. In the Navy, a mess cook was encouraged to walk the golf links with the brass, speaking his mind about Monday Night Football. I was ordered to remove cigarette butts from the field so the game could progress.

Sports is a great equalizer. People of all colors, religions, economic circumstance, sexual orientation — opposing counsel, political polar opposites — call time out from conflict to chat about Rose Bowl predictions.

“How about them Sea Hawks?” defense counsel said to plaintiff’s counsel during a short recess in what might otherwise be a contentious morning. Overhearing the discussion, the judge offered a nonbinding, non-judicial opinion.

I was going to be ironic by calling this piece Strike Five, my thought being that since there were only four strikes allowed to the fellow at bat, adding that extra one would quell any doubts regarding my noncompetitive naïveté. My wife pointed out that four downs was the rule in football. Baseball allowed three strikes. We are very compatible.

There is a perverse pleasure, a snooty one, no doubt, in my aloof attitude. I don’t participate in games — neither as a player nor a fan. It’s a defect. I’m baffled by the intensity of enthusiasm sparked by recreational competition.

As we journey through our lives, we learn about ourselves, our likes, dislikes, strengths, weaknesses, interests, fears, joys, opinions, passions. Early on, I realized I was klutzy. That when I intended to throw the ball to my father, it would land in the bushes. That when it was sent back to me, there was a good chance it would avoid my hands, but not necessarily my head.

I anticipated liking baseball. Little boys were supposed to like it. Heaven knows, I tried to like it, but did not succeed. The very first book I recall reading — way back in the early 1950s, was Lucky To Be A Yankee, by Joe DiMaggio.

The truth be told, I did not find Mr. DiMaggio interesting until a few years later, when he and the playwright Arthur Miller vied for the affections of Marilyn Monroe.

Charles Kraus is a Seattle-based writer.