My dad's beer league hockey team just won their third championship in a row.

Total hero.

Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack, I don't care if I ever come back.

In the past, I've proclaimed my love for afternoon baseball games as a thinly veiled disguise for my love of drinking in the afternoon. Baseball games are a unique social phenomena. Other than (ironically) a gay pride parade, where else can you get shit faced, take off your shirt and shout at strangers during a public day-time event?

So this weekend when the World Baseball Classic rolled through Toronto, I joined the crowd at the Skydome for an afternoon of well-rehearsed debauchery .I was joining my dad and his friend Brian on a weekend-long sports-vacation extravaganza. We already had a Raptors game under our belts and had gone endured multiple rounds of chicken wings and beer.

As we settled into our seats for a match against our arch enemy America, a young female fan in front of us waved a sign in hand-painted red and white, reading: Canada: We're bigger, and on top. Swelling with national pride and thoroughly convinced baseball couldn't get any gayer, I watched attentively until at least the fifth inning, when my attention span began to break and team Canada began to lag in runs.

Ultimately, we were no match for Derek Jeter and his band of Americans. Actually, during the whole weekend not a single home team had a winning game. I guess that's just what it's like to be a sports fan in Toronto.

That said, if anyone's up for splitting a six-pack in the parking lot and heading to the Jays season opener, I'm in.

*Disclaimer: The pops left town last night, and this blog will return to its regular scheduled content tomorrow (IE: gossip, hangovers, fashion and other art-faggy things).