“Are you going to get a hot dog?”

It’s a funny question because isn’t getting one implied when you go to a Red Sox game?

I don’t know much about sports, but I do know the rules surrounding them. You wear the hat, complain about parking, and spend way too much money on drinks. And somewhere before the first pitch, someone asks if you’re getting a hot dog.

Before I go any further, though, I should probably explain what I mean when I say I don’t know much about sports. I may actually be giving myself too much credit. I truly know nothing.

I didn’t grow up watching the Red Sox, the Celtics, the Bruins, or the Patriots. In fact, I don’t have a single memory of any of them being on the television. It wasn’t because my family hated sports or thought they were barbaric. We were just busy, and spending three or four hours watching a game was never really how we spent our time.

So I have absolutely no attachment to sports. I couldn’t tell you who’s good, who’s injured, or who’s supposed to win.

When I got to college, I learned this was apparently a problem.

“What do you mean you’ve never been to a Red Sox game?”

“You’ve never watched the Patriots?”

People looked at me like I had skipped an important part of growing up in Massachusetts. By the time I graduated, I’d gone so long without seeing any of the major Boston teams that it became a challenge. Why ruin the streak?

Well, this past Saturday, my best friend and I ended up with free tickets to see the Red Sox play the Toronto Blue Jays, where they politely lost 6-0.

Were they supposed to be good this year? I honestly have no idea. But I figured the Ninety Nine Restaurant was probably relieved they could finally stop giving away free kids’ meals.

I wasn’t really there for the baseball anyway. I wanted to experience Fenway Park, and since the tickets were free, I had a little more flexibility to actually enjoy the place without constantly thinking about how much I’d already spent just to get in.

What surprised me most about Fenway was the Disneyfication of it all. Everything moved remarkably fast. Security was efficient, tickets were scanned in seconds, and somehow tens of thousands of people flowed through the gates without everything coming to a standstill.

Then I walked inside.

I wasn’t prepared for the amount of food, drinks, and merchandise packed into one place. Everywhere I looked, there was another stand selling something. Hot dogs, pizza, sausages, giant pretzels, lobster rolls, ice cream, beer, T-shirts, sweatshirts, hats, baseballs, and things I probably missed because I was still trying to process the fact that someone was happily eating a bowl of clam chowder in direct sunlight.

Maybe that’s a Fenway tradition I just don’t understand.

After spending $24 on a drink, $7 on a hot dog, and $4 on a bottle of water, we made our way to our seats in the bleachers. We were about 14 rows behind where the players warmed up before the game, and I remember thinking they were actually pretty good seats.

Then I realized the scoreboard was behind us.

I’m sorry, but how is that acceptable?

You’re telling me that thousands of people pay for these seats and then have to turn around every few minutes just to see the score? For what I’m sure these tickets normally cost, that seems like a pretty major flaw.

Maybe lifelong baseball fans don’t need the scoreboard because they can follow every pitch. I can’t. Without the television announcers explaining what’s happening every few seconds, I spent a surprising amount of time wondering whether everyone was cheering because something exciting had happened or because the mascot had walked by.

About halfway through the game, the sun became unbearable, which gave me a perfectly reasonable excuse to spend another $40 on a Red Sox hat.

I was actually happy about that purchase.

Not because I’ve become a Red Sox fan, but because I genuinely love Boston. A Red Sox hat feels less like supporting a baseball team and more like buying a souvenir from one of my favorite cities.

Then something happened that made the score completely irrelevant.

A little girl, maybe 4 years old, appeared on the Jumbotron holding a sign that said she had beaten cancer. The entire stadium erupted. At first she looked confused, and then she realized everyone was cheering for her. Watching her face light up was easily the best part of the afternoon.

For those few moments, nobody cared that Boston was losing 6-0. Nobody cared which team anyone had come to support. Tens of thousands of people were simply happy for Bella.

That’s the part of sports I understand.

I still don’t understand how people can dedicate so much time to following every game, memorizing statistics or arguing over trades, but I do understand traditions. I understand spending an afternoon with family or friends, sharing the same experience with thousands of strangers and walking away with a story you’ll probably tell again.

Will I suddenly become a baseball fan?

No.

The hot dog wasn’t even that good.

But I’ll absolutely go back to Fenway. Not because I care who wins, but because now I understand that going to a Red Sox game isn’t always about baseball. Sometimes it’s just a really good way to spend a Saturday afternoon. And maybe that’s secretly why more people go than they’d ever admit.

Not just for baseball but rather for the excuse to spend an afternoon together.

For the stories afterward.

For asking, “Did you watch the game?”

And, of course…

“Are you going to get a hot dog?”