I’ve watched baseball through most all of my life. I was just wide-eyed enough in 1990 to dance around the living room like an idiot when Carney Lansford popped out to Todd Benzinger, a storm of a celebration that abated instantly the horror I’d felt earlier that day when Eric Davis lacerated his kidney.
If ever there was a lull in my following of the game, it came during my college years, when games were no longer so easy to pick up on TV down in Nashville, and other existential questions such as “is 17 beers too many” and “can you ski jump off the roof of the garage and clear the creek” occupied a greater cavity of my brain.