I have been watching baseball for most of my grown-up life.
My son started playing right around the time he lost his first tooth and he’s a junior in high school now.
That’s a lot of games.
An extra lot sprinkled with extra innings.
I’ve sat in the pouring rain and the blazing sun. I’ve huddled underneath blankets, shivering and frozen with a cup of hot chocolate. I’ve sat in stands you could fry an egg on and sipped sweet tea to stay cool. I’ve worn shirts proudly printed with the number 11 on them and cheered until you couldn’t hear my voice and waved my hands around like I was on the jumbotron and high-fived anyone in sight. I’ve sat in the car on long rides home after a loss and listened to the silent sadness of a baseball player covered in red clay and dirt.
But I’ve never danced through the stands.
Until last Tuesday night.Continue reading