Today is a very exciting day. It’s the first day of Major League Baseball spring training.

I grew up in a baseball family, but somehow, an obsession with the sport never took root in me. This is nothing short of a miracle, since my father and brother are unbelievably passionate about the game. My dad coached, my brother played and umpired. We took family vacations to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY and toured the SkyDome in Toronto. My dad and brother have more baseball cards than I could possibly count, carefully labeled and safely stored in the original boxes. Baseball wasn’t just a sport in our family. It was a way of life.

I love going to baseball games. We have a fantastic minor league team in Buffalo and a beautiful stadium. Every summer during my high school years, my friends and I would buy cheap tickets to the Bisons double-header followed by a Beach Boys concert. We would sing and dance and laugh and jump all over each other, fueled by Coca-Cola, popcorn, sunshine and youth.

Several years later, the old Rockpile was knocked down and replaced with the current field, now called Dunn Tire Park. It’s a great place to see a game, but it doesn’t have the same nostalgic feeling that War Memorial Stadium did. (War Memorial is where the movie “The Natural” was filmed, if that gives you any idea of what it was like.) At least Buffalo’s shitty urban planners had the good sense to put the new ballpark...get this...DOWNTOWN! What a concept. They actually did something to BRING people into the city rather than send them running to the suburbs like diuretic cheetahs.

My father insists it’s a damn shame the Buffalo Bisons aren’t a major league team, and he’s fairly bitter that the reason is because we’re too close to Toronto, which has the Blue Jays. He constantly drives home the point that we’re a TRIPLE A team, which is apparently about as close to the Show as you can get. He told me the Bisons are the only minor league team whose uniforms don’t parrot those of their major league affiliate, the Cleveland Indians. In addition, there is no Bisons logo that would identify them with their parent club or any other major league team. Basically, as far as my dad is concerned, Buffalo has a major league team. The majors just don’t know it yet.

The reason this day holds such excitement for me is because Tony is deliriously happy about the beginning of this season. He’s in favor of making today a national holiday. His love for the game is contagious, and he’s learnin’ me real good in the ways of a die hard baseball fan. He’ll make his annual trek to Florida with his brother to see the Phillies play, and we’ve got tickets to a game in April at the new stadium. When I asked him if the new field was natural grass, he responded with a resounding, “YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES!” This game can’t come soon enough.

I glimpsed Tony’s reverence for all things baseball in December when we visited Atlanta. Our main purpose for the trip was to attend a Clay Aiken concert with dear friends, but there was no question that we would be visiting Turner Field. Our tour of the stadium was nothing short of phenomenal. For me, there was wonder in the design and inner workings of the stadium. I marveled at the attention to detail. The press box and locker rooms intrigued me, the respect for the grass fascinated me, the 21 varieties of hot dogs poster revolted me, the fervor with which our tour guide spoke impressed me. I listened. I learned. But mostly, I watched Tony.

He devoured every bit of the museum, stadium and tour with his eyes and ears. I could see the wheels turning in his mind as he documented every number three and proudly stood in the visitors’ dugout while I took his picture. I didn’t ask him many questions during the sixty minute tour. I knew he needed to drink it all in. After the tour, we returned to the site of the former field, Atlanta Fulton County Stadium. I drove the bases while Tony took photos and phoned his brother excitedly. Watching him, I knew he was feeling the way I do when I attend a Broadway show. When you’re passionate about something since “forever,” you experience the event through ten, twenty and thirty year-old eyes all at once. Memory and discovery mesh simultaneously. It’s inexplicable.

And so, today, I renounce my desire to have a hungry pack of bumblebabies devour the Phillies so Tony can come with me to Vegas instead of going to Spring Training. Actually, I realized that would be a completely useless plan, since Tony could easily defeat them with superhuman adrenaline charged powers in order to prevent the demise of his beloved team. He promised to kick the shit out of the bumblebabies if necessary. It might go something like this.

Come here you little fucker!
*KICK*
That's for Jim Thome!
*PUNCH*
That's for Pat Burrell!
*SLAM*
That's for Randy Wolf!

All jokes aside, I would never stand in the way of the baseball tradition he has established with his brother. I can’t wait to hear the voice on the other end of my cell phone talkinglikethereisn’tenoughtimeintheuniversetosayeverythingthereistosay
abouthowamazingspringtrainingisandhowmuchthePhilliesrule! I can’t wait to see the look in his eyes when we walk through the gates of Citizens Bank Park for the first time ever to see the Phillies play ball.

When I started writing this entry, I thought it was going to be an extension of a joke we shared today. Now I see it’s about something more. I’m going to a major league baseball game, I’ve flown across the country, I’ve read Vonnegut, I’ve walked through Ikea in designer shoes, I’m learning to be patient and wait for things. Tony started his blog, he’s gone skiing, he’s been to karaoke, he’s seen a Broadway show, he’s become a shoe whore. Passion collides with possibility, and the results are extraordinary.

"Welcome back to baseball. Pitchers, catchers and optimism report today."
-Bob Ford

There are more great lines to be written.