I grew up playing and watching soccer games and knew next to nothing about baseball. As an adult, I went to my first game and sort of liked it. I did not expect to be a regular goer until my wife, a season ticket holder for decades, made an Orioles fan out of me. Here are impressions of the game from a Johnny-come-lately.

We were having a clear view of the field until two tall men took the seats in front of us. You might as well have built a brick wall that allows seeing only the pitcher’s head. We eventually managed to enjoy the game by moving to nearby empty seats. In our last game, a young couple sat in front of us who seemed to have fallen in love that morning. They were holding hands, hugging, kissing and swinging heads and bodies from side to side in sync with the music. It was amusing to watch, especially during slow moments in the game.

The first job after entering the ballpark is to buy my favorite Boog’s pit-beef sandwich, a bag of chips and a bottle of water. I balance them on a cardboard tray in one hand and search for the credit card with the other. All this while the cashier holds a computer screen to my face instructing me to tap 10%, 15%, 20% or other numbers. Compulsory tipping?

I find the moments before the start of the game especially enjoyable, munching on my dinner and watching the staff prepare the playing field. They draw straight white lines to define the diamond and the home plate. Another group of young men and a woman hold a long hose, with the boss holding the nozzle, watering the dirt areas. All choreographed with amazing precision.

Now it is time to honor America: standing, hat off and hand on chest, while “O say can you see” thunders through the crowd. Then, when you hear “our flag was still there,” the crowd will roar “OOOO,” and you know you are in Baltimore.

You may think it would be relaxing to enjoy a beer or two until you realize how much it costs. If you decide to go for it, beware of the consequences. I hope you have read my commentary, “When I become king of the USA.” I promised to triple the number of women’s bathrooms across the country, because women have to stand in long lines to use them, while men do not have to wait in line. This is not the case at Camden Yards, where it is actually the men who have to stand in mile-long lines — thanks to the beer. Also, be prepared to find the paper towel dispenser empty and to exit the facility with wet hands.

It wouldn’t be a sports arena without cranking up the volume of the music to its maximum. The music fills the air and only stops when the pitcher winds up. And when the fans become quiet, they are instructed to “make noise” or “clap your hands.” The fans also come alive watching the Hot Dog Race between mustard, relish and ketchup.

I admire the duel between the two main characters of the game. Two men focus intently on each other, standing 60 feet apart. The pitcher intends to fire a baseball at 100 miles an hour in the batter’s direction. He aims toward his target, an imaginary square that defines the strike area for the batter. When all goes according to plan, the batter may have a hit, strike out or advance to first base if the pitcher misses his target four times. Occasionally, a misfired ball hits a wrist or a knee, causing excruciating pain. The batter, however, bravely shakes it off and proceeds to first base.

If you are lucky, you will experience one or more of the thrills of the game: a grand slam, when a batter turns a home run into four runs; an unbelievable catch, when, with a ballet-like jump, the center fielder snags the ball; a masterful pitcher, who proudly tips his hat to an appreciative crowd after allowing no hits on his watch; or an unexpected win, when you go to bed after giving up on your team that fell behind through the eighth inning, but wake up to learn that the team came to life in the bottom of the ninth.

A young man jumps across the aisle to catch a foul ball and sits down with a wide grin of triumph. He notices a disappointed young boy 10 feet away, and he hands the ball to the boy and returns to his seat with a sigh of satisfaction. The boy is elated beyond measure. This is the magic of baseball!

Michel A. Ibrahim (micheljackie7393@gmail.com) is a retired professor of public health who lives in Baltimore.