This summer, I've been going to baseball games anywhere I can, from the boring green bleacher seats of Progressive Field in Cleveland to the second row of Grayson Stadium in Savannah, home of the Single-A Sand Gnats. I've ticked off five professional games and a handful of minor league engagements. I still haven't caught a foul ball, but one came pretty close to my section at the BayBears game. At the velocity it was moving, I'm glad it wasn't any closer.

During the World Cup, it's a commonly discussed theory that teams take on the stereotypical personality of their nations. The British side is stoic even in defeat, the Germans are elegantly physical and precise, the Korean team plays as an impossibly unified squad, the Argentines and their hair flop around the field. But the same can't be said for baseball: Is there anything particularly Baltimorean about the way Nick Markakis strokes home runs into Eutaw Street at Camden Yards? What precisely about the bizarre stance of Kevin Youkilis screams Boston? We don't call Chicago the Ivy City; it just happens that vines cover the outfield wall of Wrigley Field.

Sitting in the stands is nevertheless an opportunity to rub against the culture of a place. Before a game at Fenway Park, a tour guide ruthlessly teased the Yankees, Boston's arch rivals in much more than simply baseball. Unlike their neighbors in the Five Boroughs, fans don't have to choose between two ball teams or two hockey squads. All is for the glory of Boston, whether its a win for the Sox or a parade for the Bruins.

Minor league games offer a more intimate experience with a place. In Savannah, a local cheer camp had a monopoly on entertainment between innings. Cheer Savannah's program revealed plenty about Georgia, including that dozens of girls' families signed them up for cheerleading training "run like football camps," with a mind to "Christian values." In Montgomery, game-day eats included chicken and biscuits, a Southern specialty made all the more meaningful because the local Double-A club is called the Biscuits. The name was picked from submissions from the public.

I happened to be wearing a Biscuits hat when the heckler in Mobile introduced himself and his friend at the BayBears game. We took a photo together, after I warned him that I probably shouldn't be seen with him wearing some other team's colors. "Still Alabama, though," he reminded me as he threw a thick arm around my shoulders. Evidence of the one baseball constant, no matter the park: Fans love to cheer for the home team, even when they don't.