With our road trip just days away, I was having second thoughts. Was this going to be too much baseball? I asked my son. “No such thing as too much baseball!” he answered. I smiled. We were ready.
The last time I did this, a number of concrete, cookie-cutter stadiums still dotted the country, Pete Rose’s legend was still untainted and Barry Bonds was still a skinny kid making a name for himself in Pittsburgh. That was the summer of 1987, when two buddies and I set off in a rusted-out Chevy station wagon, determined to hit every baseball stadium we could between New York and California.