The mid-summer sun was in my eyes, but I didn't have too much trouble catching the slow-pitch softball as it bounced off home plate, knocking red dust into the air. It had been a few years since Dad's last game, and he still had some warming up to do.
I glanced beyond my father while our opponents switched batters and saw my shortstop brother give his center fielder wife a high five. I could hear their son's cheers, and I looked to see him and my mom playing in the grass outside the left-field fence.
At the end of the inning, Dad put his arm around my shoulder and said one of his dreams was coming true: he was playing ball with his whole family.
That was last summer, probably the last summer I'll ever spend at home. Who knows where I'll move next year after graduation?
I hope it's a city with a National League baseball team. That way I might be able to meet up with my folks at a St. Louis Cardinals game. I have Redbird blood, and so does everyone else with my last name.
The Cards tried to open their season Monday, but rain stopped them. It got me thinking, though, about 20 years of baseball memories.
My older brother played ball through high school, and it seems like I went to every game. The rainy-day games were always tense - aluminum bats tend to act as good lightning rods.
But most of the time, I loved the ballpark. I can still taste the cheap candy cigarettes from the concession stand and feel the rush of adrenaline that always surged through me when my brother took the mound.
I would come out from playing under the metal bleachers and stand next to Mom and Dad, all of us in matching sweatshirts.
I've still got one of those sweatshirts even though it doesn't fit anymore. I don't plan on throwing it away.
I have more memories of baseball on hot days than I could count, and every time I think of them, I feel that summertime warmth all over again. In each of those memories I see the face of a family member: my mom laughing, my dad grouching about the umpire or my brother concentrating on the strike zone.
About 20 months ago, a new face joined that list. My nephew was born on Dad's birthday, trumping my gift of late-season Cardinals-Cubs tickets. One of his first outfits was a Cardinals suit, and I think my brother and sister-in-law are already teaching him how to throw a knuckle ball.
He's the first in the next generation of baseball fans in our family, though he doesn't know it yet. Someone should warn him now, while he's still young, because there is no getting out once you commit. Believe me.
I went through a phase where I couldn't have cared less about baseball. I brought homework to my brother's games and wore headphones when my family had Cardinals games on the radio during long drives. And there was nothing worse than having to watch a game on TV.
When my brother went off to college, however, I no longer had dozens of games to go to, and guess what happened. I found myself missing baseball.
Sure, I missed the ballpark hot dogs and the sound of a homer clinking off a metal bat, but I also missed what the game meant to my family. It didn't feel right to go a whole year without taunting a pitcher with my dad or helping my mom in the concession stand.
Now I discuss Cardinals games over the phone with my parents and chuckle at pictures of my little nephew dragging a plastic bat on the ground.
A lot has changed since I first played in pickup games with neighborhood kids in my backyard. I have grown as a person, but I grew with baseball. I can mark chapters in my life by the starts of new seasons. I wonder what memories this one will make.
Write to Jennifer at jawright5@bsu.edu
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