It’s a cool evening at the ballpark, with a breeze. You eat ballpark food, which may not be good for you, but it’s tradition.
I am old enough that baseball was THE sport discussed in the house. Old enough to know the Dodgers had a home before Chavez Ravine in Los Angeles. My mother could walk to the old homestead in Flatbush. The neighborhood was once called Pigtown, the ballpark was Ebbitts Field.
This isn’t the essay I was originally going to write, but I couldn’t stop my fingers from walking across the keyboard. My parents stories were as real as though I’d been to games with them.
I married a Boston Red Sox fan. The Harvard historian Doris Kearns Goodwin speaks about Fenway Park resembling Ebbitts Field. You get the feeling of being close to the fans, when you see a game at Fenway.
Baseball has the slow pace and the timelessness. It is a break from our troubles. There are no deadlines, no countdown. Just two teams playing a game.