Like a dedicated flat-earther, I’ve always believed I played my last high school baseball game…
My wife loves winter. I hate it. I hate the cold. I hate the darkness. I hate having to layer up like a Siberian fisherman just to walk the dog. (And I live in Alabama. Imagine how ornery I’d be about this if I lived in Maine.) Plus, baseball is dormant.
If the 1982 National League Championship Series were a beer, it’d be lukewarm and flat. You’d either love it — for some unknown reason — or despise it.
I’m the former. I love it.
Back in the day, before eBay, before Fanatics.com, before the seemingly endless online options to buy branded merchandise of your favorite baseball team, I wanted a jersey of the St. Louis Cardinals. Bad. It was 1978. I was about 12. So I made my own.
I obsess about baseball. My dad didn’t. But for some reason, my virgin baseball memory is watching the Oakland A’s in the World Series with my dad back in the 1970s. Don’t ask me which World Series it was, ’72, ’73 or ’74. I haven’t a clue.