I have memories of Memorial Stadium in the summer, growing up. I can remember sitting on the 3rd base line, about 20, maybe 30 rows up from the dugout. Almost all of the times it was with my Dad. He’d score the game and I’m sure I nagged him for food regularly. I remember seeing Mike Schmidt play 3rd and thinking “there’s a name I recognize”. I think I can remember Earl Weaver running up out of the dugout more than once.
After I grew up a bit I remember listening to the games on my way home from work. John Miller on WBAL. What a voice. His voice helped me understand when people tell stories of sitting around a radio and listening to announcers of old call the games. He could put you there.
Tom Bridge’s account of his youth put me in the mood.
Spring is finally coming to town. It’s supposed to get up to the 60’s today. A bit overcast, but I’ll take it. Just makes me think of baseball. I love watching baseball. I love the game. I’m not into the stats the way some are, but it’s still left a mark on my soul. There are many who don’t feel that way these days and it’s unfortunate. They don’t like the players, and in some regards I can’t blame them. For me, it’s not about the players. I’m just as happy going to a minor league game. It’s about the atmosphere of being in this place. Paced…peanuts and beer…punctuated by moments of excitement. For me, perfection.