One of Daddy's favorite things to do when he was a kid was to go to a baseball game. Every spring, your Dad would get ready for Opening Day hoping that his Orioles would win the World Series that year. In 1979, they made it to the World Series only to have the Pirates win in seven games and crush a nine year old's heart. But, being only nine, your Daddy easily rebounded when April came around.
Fast forward to 1983. This time the Orioles triumphed over the Phillies in five games, and a 13 year old kid knew all was right in the world...at least this October. Now here we are at 2011 and Daddy's Orioles have not even come close to sniffing the World Series since that 1983 triumph, but every year there is still hope that one day they will right the ship and get back in my lifetime. The problem is that if/when they get back, you are supposed to be there with me as I teach you how to keep score, get you your first glove, pretzel, soda, and souvenir. That is what is/was supposed to happen but never will.
Growing up, Daddy was taught that baseball, more than any other, is a Father and Son sport in which we are supposed to enjoy warm summer nights at the ballpark as Mommy and Ava have a girls only night. Daddy is supposed to get in trouble for giving you goodies that you are not allowed to eat at home because it is supposed to be our time.
So, as this baseball season winds down, your Dad has been trying to stay up and watch the games, imagining the day we would have and should have gone to see our Orioles in the World Series. One can always hope.
I love you!