Growing up with Baseball
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
I grew up a Philadelphian, which means I grew up with baseball—the sounds of it on my grandfather's radio in southwest Philly, the gleam of it on the family TV, family expeditions to the ball park, including a clincher game at a long-ago world series.
Last night the Phillies earned their spot in the National League play-offs by finishing off the Colorado Rockies, but it was no simple victory. It was a game, in the end, that required the Phillies (who had heretofore left the bases loaded twice) to score big in the top of the ninth and to finish things off with a strike. They did both things against the odds, and I lost my voice yelling them on. Now to more pacing, yelling, nail biting as the Phillies take on the Dodgers for the division championships. Sorry, all my LA friends, but you know where my sentiments lie.
This photo, in case you are wondering, is not of a Phillie, but of the star pitcher from the local high school baseball team. My son was one of the two team managers for several years—a job that gave me one of the greatest excuses in the world to quit all else at the end of certain school days and to sit in the weather with the fans.
I miss those days. I miss that team. I miss yelling where the players can hear me.
