I love outings to the ballpark. My ears perk (竖起) up at the whack of a precisely hit ball, my nose enjoys the scent of hot dogs, and my heart jumps at the possibility of winning it all. But a few years ago I discovered the best way to watch a baseball game might be not to watch at all.

This discovery arose the year I got married. The first apartment my husband and I rented could charitably be called “charming”, although “diminutive” better describes it. But to young newlyweds, the 41-square-metre apartment felt sublime. The best thing about the apartment, in my opinion, was its location a quarter-mile from baseball’s oldest stadium, Boston’s Fenway Park.

The only problem? My husband was not a Red Sox fan. I hadn’t anticipated this stumbling block. He was an avid sports fan, and he’d only just moved to Boston. Surely a love of the hometown team would seep into his heart as naturally as fish take to water.

My hopes faded as the season began. A Seattle Mariners hat remained firmly planted on his head. Matching Red Sox T-shirts earned a veto.

As newlywed disagreements go, this one wasn’t horrible. Plenty of couples flourish with dueling team loyalties. But a worry nagged: If he couldn’t root for the Red Sox, would he ever truly make Boston home?

As a student, when the magic in the air that season permeated (传播) the girls’ boarding school I attended outside Boston, we begged our house directors to let us stay up past curfew to watch the games on TV, and when they at first refused, we listened on radios in our rooms and gleefully burst into the halls to cheer.

So when my husband said he’d never be a Red Sox fan, my heart clenched. But one delightful spring day our teeny apartment came to my rescue. As we sat at our dining room table, we heard a roar swell to a crescendo. This was the first indication that we could hear the stadium crowds from our home.

The highlights of every World Cup are the impossible goals, especially the arc (弧线) ball goals. It’s breathtaking to watch. Every spin (旋转) of the ball moves air across the surface, pushing it into a bend.

When a soccer ball flies, the air forms a layer around the surface of the ball. As the balls pins, it changes the direction of the air to one side, says John Bush, an applied mathematician at MIT. This air pushes the ball in the opposite direction. The player starts with a strike on the outside of his right foot, which hits the left side of the ball, starting a clockwise spin. It throws the air off to the left, and the force created by the air leaving the ball pushes it to the right, explains Bush. Thus, a ball spinning to the right (that’s clockwise) will also are towards the right. This force is called the Magnus Effect.

It helps the goalkeepers, because they see uniform curvature (曲度) when players are taking bending shots at them. If they can pick up the spin right, it’s going to be the same amount of curvature, and they know where to put their hands. This is partly why players are much more likely to take bending shots during free kicks when goalkeepers can’t see their kicks quite as well because of the wall of defenders. If a ball isn’t spinning, it does something called knuckling, where the air turns the ball to one side in random directions, causing it to bounce in-the air unpredictably. “It’s usually achieved when a player manages a sharp, fast touch of the ball, typically right on the air valve where the ball is most firm.” say a Bush. Its lack of spin kept the goalkeeper from being able to predict where it was going until it was too late. All the goalkeepers tremble before the kicker that can shoot this kind of soccer ball.

Nowadays, people have a heated discussion on whether the pressure on international sports players kills the essence of sport --- the pursuit of personal excellence. Children kick a football around for fun. When they get older and play for local school teams, they become competitive but they still enjoy playing. The individual representing his country cannot afford to think about enjoying himself; he has to think only about winning. He is responsible for the entire nation’s hopes, dreams and reputation.

A good example is the football World Cup. Football is the world’s most important sport. Winning the World Cup is perhaps the summit of international sporting success. Mention Argentina to someone and the chances are that he’ll think of football. In a sense, winning the World Cup put Argentina on the map.

Sports fans and supporters get quite irrational about the World Cup. People in England felt that their country was somehow important after they won in 1966. Last year thousands of Scots sold their cars, and even their houses, and spent all their money travelling to Argentina, where the finals were played.

So, am I arguing that international competition kills the idea of sport? Certainly not! Do the Argentinians really believe that because eleven of their men proved the most skillful at football, their nation is in every way better than all others? Not really, but it’s nice to know that you won and that in one way at least your country is the best.