It’s a steamy night in Miami Gardens when the Atlanta Braves make their return to Pro Player Stadium to face the Florida Marlins. The year is 2003, and nine year-old me is sitting ten rows up from the third-base dugout. I’m probably just waiting for the inning to end, so that I can run down to the first row and beg for a ball; nonetheless, I enjoy the intermittent baseball. With reference to no specific occasion, the story usually goes: the first inning starts with any combination of Rafael Furcal or Marcus Giles reaching base.
A Fish Killer goes to Cooperstown
