Okay, it was a mid=season game against a team that has pretty much sewn up the worst in the league standings, but the weather was beautiful, the food at our fabulous new ballpark was as delicious as ever, it was Chase Utley bobblehead night, and we were sitting out there in right field watching Brett Myers pitch a 9-inning shut out and, while Rollins and Howard and even Utley continued to struggle, Greg Dobbs (Greg who?) hit a 2-run home run.
And so of course I've been thinking about baseball and how we're passing the love of this sport down to JR (or is he bringing us to it?) Because, truly, I came to baseball late in life. My dad was a basketball fan. Big Five basketball, to be specific. So I grew up on tales of rivalries between St. Joe's and LaSalle and deafening, earsplitting games at the Palestra. Of course, there were also always the Celtics. And for me, Bill Walton and Pete Maravich. Or my dad's favorites - Wilt and Bill Bradley. There was also football - mostly college games, where I developed my fascination with half-time shows, which drew me into my high school years of marching band dominating my entire social life (yes, I was a band geek).
With the exception of one Yankees game my first year out of college, I never knew anything about baseball until my first year of law school, where I discovered Fenway and the lure of the green wall and the bleachers (much more enticing than spending a fall afternoon in a Contracts lecture).
So I am a Red Sox fan - except I live in Philadelphia and I have a son. So we are Phillies fans (his other favorite team is the Orioles - he doesn't know red from white socks at this point). And last night, we all watched a little slice of baseball history being made.
lots and lots of sourdough–my routine
1 week ago