“It’s a good thing the snack bar takes sticky quarters.” –unknown child to his confederates in the bleachers last week I t’s no secret that I don’t love baseball. From the deliberate pace of the game to the endless circling of the snack bar by players and spectators alike (“Can I have a slushie/hot dog/hamburger/anything from the snack bar?”), there isn’t all that much there there in my experience. Throw in the wind and grit peculiar to our part of the country and you have described two hours that I’d like to spend anywhere but watching a Little League game. “At least when it was machine pitch the kids were hitting something,” I overheard one mother hiss to another last week. “Now nothing happens.”…