When I was six years old my uncle Robbie took me to my first baseball game at old Arlington Stadium.  The year was 1987.  I don’t remember who the Rangers were playing, or even who won, but I remember that it was bat night, and that we were in the outfield bleachers.  I remember the crowd beating the bats rhythmically on the metal of the bleachers.  It created such a wonderfully terrifying noise. It reminded me of the legendary thunderstorms North Texas is so known for.  I also remember when a rookie outfielder named Ruben Sierra came to bat and hit a home run.  The ball was in the air, and I could tell that it was coming straight for me if I could just gain a little height.  I quickly stood up and stepped on the bench I was sitting on.  My glove was already on my hand, as my uncle had insisted I wear it.  I reached my hand high.  As far I could reach.  The man behind caught it.  It sailed just one inch over my glove.

Even though I didn’t catch that ball, it was enough to enthrall me with the world of baseball.  I often sit in the outfield when I go to game for that very reason.  Every time, I think, “today, I’m going to catch a home run.”  I never do, but the game has become so much more than that.  I find it a true joy watch and talk about.   I hope you enjoy my blog, or at least hate it enough read it.

You can follow me on twitter @JasonMetcalf3



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