Recalled to life
Four months of illness, pain, winter, and disappointment have given way to springtime, to sunshine, to the melody of sweet, sweet song.
The music is medicine -- ball hitting bat, barkers boasting beer, peanuts, Cracker Jack, chatter.
Last night, on a super Saturday in Charlotte, the Knights came from behind late to beat the Norfolk Tides 4-2. The Budweiser Clydesdales were on hand to christen the new BB&T Ballpark. 10,199 others joined me, and I didn't want to go home.
But, then again, I never want to go home.
Kurt Pickering has made it to minor-league ballpark No. 127. He'll have visited every affiliated park by the end of the year. How about that!
I have a more meager goal -- to get to more than a game or two this year. Migraines keep me home these days. It's OK. I shut my eyes, listen to the Tigers game, or to Vin Scully if he's on, or to Dick Enberg. I like good broadcasters. Few remain.
You can pack up your troubles and leave them elsewhere when you're watching a ball game. Nothing else matters. Not one damn thing.
Like the old man in Dickens, you are recalled to life, connected to that part of you that is still eight years old, when the difference between joy and heartache is measured by mere inches.