Calling the Pen: Influencing the next generation of Oriole fans

The day after the Orioles had officially been eliminated from postseason play, Pete Alonso was still playing as though he hadn’t gotten the memo. In what turned out to be their final day of the 2026 season, the 31-year-old first baseman hit two more home runs in Game 1 of a doubleheader against the Yankees.

The good folks at the Amish Market in Hunt Valley also hadn’t given up on the Orioles. They announced that Alonso’s second home run, his 43rd of a brilliant season, had left Yankee Stadium. It hadn’t, but it did travel 471 feet at 113 mph.

My granddaughter Juniper, who’s 5, was in the Amish Market when news of Alonso’s blast came over the loudspeaker. She told her grandmother that Pete Alonso had hit a ball out of the ballpark. She followed it up by saying, “I wish I was there to see that.”

Juniper has been watching baseball, or hearing about baseball, from her grandfather since she was born. She would prefer Bluey to batted balls, but she seems to understand that Pop Pop needs to watch the games for the work that he does on his computer for BaltimoreBaseball.com. Until Alonso’s mighty blast, Gunnar Henderson was the Oriole she most admired. I didn’t share with her Henderson’s disappointing season.

But her eagerness to share with her grandmother the tale of Alonso’s home run made me think of my own grandfather, and the influence he had on me with regard to my lifelong passion for baseball. Even when we’re not aware of it, our children, and grandchildren, are watching and listening.

With my grandfather, it was mostly listening. Each night of the season, he would sit at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him, Carling Black Label in his glass, and the radio dial set to Orioles baseball. Hall of Fame broadcaster Chuck Thompson would say, “Ain’t the beer cold!” or “Go to war, Miss Agnes!” to emphasize exciting plays. His partner, Bill O’Donnell, always would be saying something positive, as if he had been taught, if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.

I would sit with my grandfather for a while and then make my way to the living room, where my grandmother was watching her shows. Depending on what was on, or how the Orioles were doing, I’d go back and forth, with neither one doing much talking during the shows or the games. I didn’t find their separation on those evenings odd; I just loved being in their presence.

But I discovered that baseball had become my first love. And I became aware that my mom also had been influenced by my grandfather (her dad), and that her favorite Oriole was catcher Clint Courtney, who hit the first home run at Memorial Stadium and used an oversized mitt to catch knuckleballer Hoyt Wilhelm, until Diamond Jim Gentile came along. She also used to say, “You won’t believe-a Tony Oliva,” just to get under my skin.

Because she was a fan, I thought the lyrics to an Orioles baseball song left her out — “Oriole Baseball! It’s a father and son, having fun, together! It’s you and your number one, underneath the lights or in the sun … Having fun … Together” — although I suppose the author thought the second line could refer to moms, wives, daughters and granddaughters.

Baseball gave my grandfather and me a connection that we never lost. It was never something that was forced, because he was a quiet, studious man who wore a suit, starched white shirt and tie to his accounting job, where he could beat a calculator at adding and subtracting. He was just as thorough pouring over baseball statistics. That was the kind of math he taught me to like as I eagerly awaited the Sunday sports section that ran the pitchers’ and hitters’ stats in both leagues.

By listening to the games with him, it also taught me how to imagine the game, and I carried that to my backyard Wiffleball games that I played by myself. The yard had crabapple trees in right and left and a short porch in right because of the fence configuration. I would bat right-handed and left-handed, tossing the ball in the air to hit it, and decide what was a hit and what was an out while pretending to be two teams.

It was all pretend, but it seemed real, and magical. It was my escape from whatever happened to be bothering me. When not hitting, I would pitch into the chicken-wire backstop, calling balls and strikes and perfecting my breaking pitches.

Juniper is growing up during a period when screen time is eroding our imagination, our stillness, our time to think, our time together, our time outdoors. Baseball remains one of the things that can slow down the pace. It inspires our imagination when we hear it on the radio. It inspires thought when we analyze it. It’s meant to be shared and played outside.

My grandfather probably didn’t realize the influence he had on me. When I think of the influence I might have on others, it weighs heavy, like the sledgehammer Alonso swings in the on-deck circle. But when I hear Juniper’s excitement about a game that still excites me, it makes me think that my grandfather would be nodding his head in approval while sitting at that kitchen table, with a newspaper and glass of beer in front of him, and an Orioles game on the radio.