My dad was meticulous about the work he did. There were no shortcuts. He might have invented measure twice cut once except I recall he measured at least three times before he cut. There was nothing he couldn’t do, and nothing he didn’t do right, including repairing the rain spouts. Through the...
I walked up to the batter’s box careful — at first — not to make eye contact with the pitcher. After looking down at the dirt while I set my feet at home plate, I peered out to the mound where Cal Ripken Jr., stood hand in glove, looking in at his...
It was a sunny afternoon in early October, the kind that connects the fading of summer with the emergence of fall and its bold colors. I was about to make a bold prediction, with my dad as a witness. We had stopped at a diner after going to the grocery store, and...
It is the first Mother’s Day without her, just as it was the first Opening Day without her. They belong in the same sentence because of my mom’s love for baseball, and the love we shared through the game. We even sang “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” as we said...
Every once in a while, a season in our life runs parallel with a season of a lifetime. It happened to me in 1983. April 4th was Opening Day, but my focus was on the birth of our third child, Kelly Patricia, to whom I gave three nicknames — Lover Dover, Special...
In Dan Connolly’s invitation to readers to write baseball essays, he stated that it’s the most lyrical of all sports, and that, “maybe it is how the history is woven into the fabric of this country.” I would amend that slightly. “Maybe it is how baseball’s history, and Orioles’ history, are woven into my fabric.” I am no longer young, when things...
I grew up knowing only one grandfather. He was on my mother’s side, and I called him Pop Pop. We spent more time with the relatives of my father, whose dad died when he was 6, so I mainly saw Pop Pop on holidays and birthdays until I got older. Pop Pop...