People who aren't fans of baseball — I call them jerks — often complain of the pacing of the game. It can be soporific. There is no clock counting down, whipping the participants forward. An inning, with no score, can stretch out. The batter steps out of the box to perform a ritualistic set of adjustments to his batting gloves, jersey and helmet, then steps in again. The umpire squats. The pitcher leans over on his front leg, refuses several suggested pitches from his catcher, then pulls back and motions him to come have a discussion closer to the mound. The first basemen lifts his glove over his mouth and joins them. The players return to their positions, the batter calls for time again, knocks a little turf out of cleats. The windup. The pitch. And the announcer, heated with anticipation, calls it "Looping curve. Swing. And a grounder rolllllliiinnng fooouuul," before recounting a set of statistics about this particular hitter, in this particular ballpark, on half-moon nights in August. People who aren't fans of baseball have walked in on me sleeping during a game like this. It's a restful sport, with rhythms that relax rather than rile. The intruders sometimes change the channel to The Hills. My slumber is broken, and in my best bleacher accent, I yell "Hey, hey, hey! I was watching a game here."

Like many newer stadiums, Nationals Ballpark is a place that caters to jerks, while pretending to cater to baseball fans. But before a precise examination of the flaws in the Nationals Ballpark experience, I feel obliged to mention its merits. Despite what seems to be a craven desire to become the Geico Ballpark (the insurance giant's advertising dominates the park), the place is named after its team rather than the company you call when you get sideswiped by a Jeep Wrangler.

Judged strictly by the views it provides of the diamond, it also fares well: Most of the 41,000-odd seats are good. So is access. Because the field sits below street-level, many of the fans can file into their seats without having to climb a staircase or ride an escalator. The walk from the Navy Yard metro stop — just a single block — into center field fires the imagination. The grey flat stone behind the backstop is oddly distinctive and attractive. The stone on the outside of the ballpark evokes the city's other monuments.

And even a snotty traditionalist can't help but sit slack-jawed before the 4,532-square-foot high-definition video screen. Showing replays at a game is an innovation, sure. But, not unwelcome. The sheer size and clarity of the screen gives ticket-holders the pleasure of the living room spectator, the ability to see it again.

The field was properly christened on opening day when Nationals third baseman Ryan Zimmerman  launched a whopping walk-off home run to cap the game; as is custom, the fans stormed the field. No better way to begin a stadium's life than having a celebratory mosh-pit at home.

But already on opening night there were problems. Zimmerman's home run caused someone in the ballpark to push a button which sent fireworks into the sky. While Nats fans cheered, they suddenly found debris falling on them — as if the home run had activated an itch in the stadium's scalp and the dandruff was wafting down. Fireworks are now common in modern ballparks and sometimes, as at Shea in New York, leave a pungent and dark cloud lingering over center field. In Nationals Ballpark, the cloud usually climbs up and out of the stadium, as bits of paper flap their way into your nachos. Worse, fireworks are an obnoxious way of interrupting the swelling cheer of a crowd. Instead of enjoying the homer, we are vaguely jolted by something that sounds like mortar fire.

But loud, flashy distractions are the name of the game at Nationals Park. Between innings, the scores disappear from the electronic boards and are replaced by advertisements. So much for taking the time to fill out the score sheet, which is included in the game program, presumably for nostalgia purposes only. People come to games, in part, to enjoy the sport with limited commercial interruption. This consolation is robbed from us.