The Nats moved to D.C. when I was eight years old, and as an avid Little Leaguer whose dad brought him to more games than he could count, it didn’t take long for me to get hooked. The team was horrible, but I grew up wearing No. 11 on every jersey for every sports team I played on and proudly displayed my John Patterson autographed hat on my bookshelf.
I would get in trouble for writing out mock lineups in class instead of taking notes. My mom would pick me up from school at lunch saying we had family matters to take care of when she was actually bringing me to RFK for a game.