At the end of my college career, I stayed in Madison for another year working. One of the fun things we’d do was go to Madison Muskies games, the Class A minor league affiliate of the Oakland A’s.

For $5.25, you got a ticket, two food items, and a drink.

Even in the late ’80s, I’m pretty sure this was not a sustainable business model.

They played in what was essentially a glorified high school stadium, and our favorite bet was whether there would be more runs or errors in a given inning.

Spoiler alert: errors usually won.

It was not good baseball. I have no idea how many of those players ever made it to Oakland. I’m guessing not many. But it was a great time.

A year later, I spent the summer in El Paso with the Army Reserve. I had a pretty chill 9-to-5 job, so at night I’d often head into town to the Dudley Dome—which, despite the name, was not a dome—to watch the Class AA El Paso Diablos, then an affiliate of the Milwaukee Brewers.

I don’t think either the Muskies or the Diablos exist anymore. Too bad.

The Diablos were a step up. Bigger stadium. Better baseball. And, most importantly, 10-cent hot dog nights.

I remember sitting at one of those games when the older couple behind me insisted that I put some of their homemade salsa on my 10-cent hot dogs. I did. It was fantastic.

Think about that for a minute: baseball, cheap tickets, 10-cent hot dogs covered in a stranger’s homemade salsa, and a couple of people I’d never met treating me like we’d been going to games together for years.

What’s not to love?

That’s another thing I’ve always liked about minor league baseball. The fans just seem friendlier. There’s less intensity. Nobody’s acting like the fate of Western civilization depends on whether the home team wins. You’re there to watch some baseball, eat something unhealthy, laugh at whatever ridiculous promotion they’re doing between innings, and enjoy a summer night.

Last year, my wife and I went to a Salt Lake Bees game. Now I was getting closer to the big leagues. The Bees were AAA, affiliated with the Angels. Better players, nicer stadium, better baseball.

But still cheap. Still relaxed. Still fan-friendly.

Then today, my wife and I took two of our kids (against their will) to a Chicago Dogs game.

The Dogs are independent baseball, so we’re heading back down the baseball food chain again.

And the play was…uh…not good.

I’ll forgive a lower-level player for bobbling a line drive. These guys are still infinitely better at baseball than I ever was or ever will be.

But three guys watching a ball drop between them?

That’s pretty bad.

It happened twice by the time we left in the sixth inning.

The opposing pitcher also walked four batters in a row. For the non-baseball fan, that means he walked the bases loaded and then walked in a run. Two batters later, he walked in another one.

Ouch.

But you know what?

I loved it.

The ticket was cheap. Actually, mine was free. Parking was free. Bottomless popcorn was $3.50. Bottomless soda was $3.50. We sat outside on a summer afternoon watching baseball and laughing at some truly questionable fielding.

And it reminded me how much I love minor league baseball.

Maybe even more than Major League Baseball.

Don’t get me wrong. I love going to Wrigley Field. There’s nothing quite like a packed major league stadium, especially when the game matters.

But minor league baseball feels different.

Nobody is charging you $18 for a beer. Nobody needs a second mortgage to take the family. The players aren’t superstars. The stadium isn’t a cathedral. Sometimes three professional baseball players stand around and watch a catchable fly ball hit the ground.

Twice.

And somehow that’s part of the charm.

I’ve been going to these games for almost 40 years now – from the Madison Muskies, to the El Paso Diablos, to the Salt Lake Bees, to the Chicago Dogs.

Different cities. Different teams. Different levels of baseball.

Same basic formula.

Cheap tickets. Cheap food. Friendly people. A summer evening or afternoon at the ballpark.

And every once in a while, if you’re lucky, somebody sitting behind you offers you some homemade salsa for your 10-cent hot dog.

I’ll always be a fan.