Ken Burns is an American filmmaker whose work I deeply admire. His documentaries’ unique style captivates my attention, no matter what the subject, and believe me, that is very, very hard to do. I have had ADHD my whole life, (though it wasn’t specifically tested for and diagnosed until just two years ago), and if a movie does not capture my interest within the first ten minutes, I will either get bored and start fidgeting, or I’ll simply nod off, much to the chagrin of my family members.

We do not have cable television, but have Internet TV instead. I love having the freedom to watch what I want to watch, when I want to watch it. Lately, I’ve been on a Ken Burns’ kick, mesmerized by his depictions of the prohibition era, the man-made disaster that contributed to laying the foundation for America’s dust bowl, and our nation’s exquisite national parks. Most recently I watched the eighteen-and-half hour documentary, “Baseball.” I loved it.

I find all the tidbits of information that Burns’ weaves into his stories fascinating. Take for instance, the fact that baseball is the only sport in which the defense has control of the ball. Despite being a fan all my life, this unique and amazing detail has escaped me.

My heart ached when “Baseball” focused on how strong racial prejudices against black players had been, and I cried when learning that two of my all-time favorite St. Louis Cardinals, Bob Gibson and Curt Flood, were prohibited from staying in the same hotel as their white teammates, but had to stay in hotels that were miles away. Hatred and bigotry were hallmarks of the great Ty Cobb, I learned, and I wished I had never thought he was a great baseball player.

I laughed when the story of Mickey Mantle’s less-than-stellar minor league experience was told, and that, when he was in a hitting slump how he telephoned his dad back home in Oklahoma and told him about it. His dad told him he’d be right there, and immediately drove to Mantle’s hotel in Independence, Missouri. Upon his dad’s arrival, Mantle was surprised that his dad began packing his bags instead of giving him the much-anticipated and much-wanted pep talk. When he asked his dad what he was doing, his dad replied, “I’ve come to take you home…I thought I raised a man.” I laughed because this struck a chord with me; you see, I was the hard-nosed parent that was more about having my kids suck-it-up than to coddle them. Someone has to do it.

In my mind, baseball has and always will be my idea of America’s favorite pastime. Like movies that bore me and cause me to fall asleep, other sports simply do not have what it takes to make me come back game after game, season after season. And while baseball has its tainted past–racism, the steroids scandals, and player strikes–it is something defines our country and the fans who can’t get enough of it. From spring training in March to the World Series in October, it has my attention. It’s gotta be love.