Baseball is a game of memories. And memories, like the game of baseball, are fleeting and imperfect.
I don’t remember watching my first game, or even playing my first game of T-ball. There are scattered images — sliding into home plate wearing sweatpants, that harsh feeling when you hit the rubber tee instead of the ball, the general look, and feel, of the park. I don’t remember my first game at Coors Field and although I know I went to baseball games at Mile High Stadium, I don’t remember that either except of course the indelible image of the bucking bronco atop the building.