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