Baseball

I have a special passion in my life. A passion so vast that I will never fully have the capacity to express it. This passion stems from a time as a youth so pure and untainted that not even nature herself can understand. This passion began when I was six years old. It began at 4501 S. Jackson St in Seattle, Washington. It began in a place where children’s dreams come true, and where moments so precious only a father and son could fully appreciate them. This passion began in the midst of 60,000 other people, in an old run down dome where America’s pastime was played. It began when I saw #24 come to the plate for the very first time and when I saw old men cry after losing a child’s game.

I was just six years old when my father took me to my very first baseball game at the Kingdome. I remember walking down 5th street in Pioneer Sqaure past the smell of hot dog and pizza vendors. “Cheaper here than in the stadium, $2.00 a dog,” they yelled. My dad always stopped for a “dog.” My mitt in hand and filled with anticipation, I was so excited to go see the Mariners play.

When we approached the dome for the first time, a sudden sense of excitement filled my every bone. We walked into the stadium and up the ramp. I saw the field for the first time walking through Aisle 111. I couldn’t contain myself anymore as I ran to the seats. Looking up at my dad with the purest of smiles, he glanced back at me smiling even bigger. It was the most genuine of father-son moments being shared together at a baseball game; America’s pastime in its most untainted state. Enamored by every little sight and sound, I couldn’t help but look around the park and take in the resonance of the stadium. I loved every second of it. I loved the fresh smell of peanuts and the cracking sound they made in your hands. I loved the way the fresh cut grass looked from up above. I loved the way the players stood at the edge of the dugout and cracked open sunflower seeds. I loved the signs the third base coach gave his hitter on a 2-1 count facing a lowball pitcher. I loved hearing my dad’s passion as he described the hit-and-run to me and when to execute the double steal. I loved hearing about his hometown team, the New York Yankees, and how he used to write #7 all over his shoes and shirts to honor his favorite player of all time, Mickey Mantle. And most of all, I loved just being at the ballpark with my dad for the first time. For this was a moment etched in time and a moment I will forever cherish. I love you dad.