Without baseball, I would not exist.
About eighty years ago, my grandfather was playing in a club baseball game in Fairmount. At some point he began backing towards the bleachers to catch a foul ball. He missed. It hit Florence Niemeyer of the Red Top Brewing Company, sitting along the basepath with friends. Later he made his way over to apologize. Thus, I exist, along with my mother, three uncles, and six cousins.
And so bad baseball created a good family. I have been thinking on this all season, watching balls sail over bullpen pitchers’ heads and baserunners patiently awaiting the RBI that never comes.