You can’t ‘root, root, root’ for the home team from the press box. Or so the story goes…
With the champagne now drying on the floor of the Reno Aces’ locker room, and the plastic being removed from the lockers, and the El Paso field crew now assured of at least one more tending to the freshly mowed oasis in downtown; I can now share with you the profound baseball story from a couple weeks back.
I’ve been so juiced about the possibility of a pennant race/chase that I’ve kept going on and on about it. As in most of my non-work conversations rotated around the subject. Pennant Race this and pennant race that.
Until my first born had finally had enough. “Dad…what is a pennant and why the race?”
Once explained, he understood the meaning and smiled, and I instantly felt the gravity of the situation. I realize that baseball almost escaped us, and we almost lost a generation.
Almost gone. Like a pitch that breaks too far outside…and keeps on going…just out of reach of the catcher…and you feel his regret in missing that one pitch. That could have been us.
It really puts things into perspective – generationally that is – as I clearly remember every time the SunKings, then the Diablos, were in the thick of the chase. The sights, the sounds, the excitement. Almost gone. But now, most assuredly here. And real. Just like my rapidly growing collection of Chihuahua hats, now exceeding my beloved Red Sox collection.
Now I get to share that with my kids. Baseball therapy and familial legacy, ladies and gentlemen, you cannot beat it. Get in line (or on-line) early, because I’m pretty sure there’s a bunch of families that think the exact same way that I do.
So, go ahead and call me Mr. Simpson…because I’m a HOMER.