Braves bring a smile

Sunday afternoon was cold, gray, windy.

Didn't feel so good. Kidney stones and such. Ugh.

But my long lost first love, those amazing Atlanta Braves, found themselves on the brink of the postseason. All they needed was to win Game 162 and get a little help from the San Francisco Giants to win the National League Wild Card. Wow.

I propped up on the couch and managed to make it through one of Chip Caray's telecasts. You ain't your daddy, fella. Routine singles don't warrant all that screaming.

There was Bobby Cox, a guy you'd swear was 80 years old, but hasn't yet made it to 70. It seems like he's been there forever, doesn't it?

Bobby is saying bye-bye after this year. The young Turks on this year's squad dedicated the season to him, said they wanted to send him out a winner, give him one more day in the sun.

Darned if they didn't do it.

After a terrible start (anybody remember that 9-game losing streak?), the Braves found themselves in first place for much of the summer. I kept thinking that the Phillies would prove to be too loaded, that they'd eventually catch these scrappy Braves.

And that's what happened. But, down-to-the-wire races are fun. Expansion took some of it away, but the pennant (and wild card) races endure, as does most everything that's grand about this old game.

The ATL nearly blew a big lead, but held on to win, 8-7. I didn't jump up and down, but I did smile, and pulled the fading Braves jacket out of the closet. The blue dye is starting to bleed on whatever one wears underneath it. Which is fitting, because I, too, once bled Atlanta blue.

Baseball isn't what it used to be. I don't live and die with it anymore. To tell you the truth, I didn't watch too many games after the All-Star break.

But yesterday, when I didn't feel too well and the chill of an early fall enveloped East Tennessee, my long lost first love showed back up for three hours, right when I needed them, bringing some unexpected joy, reminding me of precious memories all but gone with the wind.

Here it is October and Atlanta is back in the playoffs. For a few minutes anyway, all seems right with the world.

Never be the same

Talk about special.

Got home a little while ago. Closing the books on a tough week.

All I wanted to do was turn the phone off awhile, turn on the Braves game, cook some wings and drink a beer. So I did.

Home opener tonight in the ATL. The Nats are in town.

During the top half of the third guess who showed up in the booth? Pete Van Wieren, Skip's longtime partner, somebody who will forever feel like an old friend.

Pete retired last year. And, as you probably know, Skip died. I had been listening to them since 1985. I've spent more time with them than with members of my own family. I can promise you I would have never loved baseball -- or the Braves -- near as much without them.

The Professor was honored tonight before the game. Threw out the first pitch. The Braves gave him a golden microphone and named the radio booth after him.

So, he visited the Peachtree TV booth tonight to chat with Chip Caray and Joe Simpson. I almost teared up hearing that voice again.

Pete says he likes retirement. He doesn't miss the rain delays, or the west coast trips, or the visits to Shea Stadium. He likes being able to go to his grandchildren's activities. He and his wife want to travel.

But, you can tell he misses baseball.

He started talking about Derek Lowe as if he were still working the Braves beat. That man has forgotten more than most of us will ever know about the game.

As I listened to his voice, and thought about the memories, I mused that things won't ever be the same. I mentioned this to you when I wrote the blog on vacation at Bridget and Dewayne's after Christmas.

I miss the old TBS. I miss "Andy Griffith" and "Perry Mason" and "Sanford and Son" reruns. I miss the classic voice of the announcer that would promote the rural/Southern/action movies the station used to show. Heck, I miss the movies. I miss everything airing at either :05 or :35 after the hour.

And I miss the Braves. I miss all 162 games airing on Ted Turner's Superstation. I miss the low-key graphics, the bad instrumental music at commercial breaks, the times when things seemed simple.

Everything is so commercialized now, so homogenized. Somewhere along the way being regional became a bad word. I am proud to be a Southerner. I hope you're proud of your home region.

Oh, and how will I miss Skip and Pete. And Ernie Johnson. And Don Sutton and Joe Simpson, although they're still around.

It isn't the same. Never will be.

A summer love, gone forever

Macon, Ga. -- Passed by Turner Field last Saturday morning on my way to Bibb County.

It was like seeing your first love years after the fact -- awkward, bittersweet, wistful -- her appearance changed, no longer the girl you once knew.

I found the Atlanta Braves in the 1980s, back when they were awful, back when they showed up every night from April until September on WTBS. You could count on it. Dale Murphy, Bob Horner, Gene Garber and Glenn Hubbard.

Then 1991 happened and we danced in the streets. At least until Jack Morris broke our hearts in Game 7 of the Series -- but what a battle of wits between Morris and John Smoltz!

And, back then, you could count on Skip Caray, Pete Van Wieren (and, for a long while, Ernie Johnson) to keep you company during the game. Seven thirty-five p.m. Eastern, just after "Andy Griffith."

Skip was your favorite because he made you laugh. This was essential when Atlanta was losing 90 games a year. But you loved Pete, too, because he had such a rich voice and vast knowledge of the game. They called him "The Professor."

This beautiful romance lasted through the 1990s and into the 2000s. The Braves kept winning (1995 was the moment of magic) and Skip and Pete were there for all of it.

Warning signs began five years ago. Turner socked it to Caray and Van Wieren, relegated them to regional TV on Turner South, a cold-hearted slap in the face. I was furious. So were others. Ratings dropped. Skip and Pete were back by mid-year.

Then the Braves started losing and this time around it didn't seem so much fun. Dale Murphy wasn't playing right field. Fewer games were broadcast on TBS. I wasn't a kid anymore.

TBS aired its last game last fall. Skip and son Chip brought me one last moment in the sun, the date when you know you and she have drifted apart. Skip said goodbye and teared up. I did too.

I had met him that summer. He said he liked my Braves Hawaiian shirt. I told him he'd made me laugh for 23 years. He said he was glad to hear it.

He was with us a few times on something called Peachtree TV earlier this year. I laughed at the old jokes ("The bases are loaded and Dusty Baker wishes he was.") I missed -- or chose to miss -- the exhaustion in Skip's voice.

Then he died. John Martin Ramsey broke the news, on a sweltering Sunday night, as I was coming home from a Robinella show. I don't remember the drive from North Knoxville to Black Oak Ridge. I was in shock. I had lost a good friend.

I forwent the TV telecast the following night to listen to Pete on the radio. He told Skip stories and fought back tears himself. "At least I still have Pete," I said.

Then Pete retired.

I had met Pete, too, earlier in the year. He was sitting alone at his and Skip's barbecue joint in the stadium. I told him how much I missed him on TBS, how long I'd been a fan, how he and Skip had lifted my spirits the summer the Black Dog nearly nipped me for good.

He smiled, said "Wow," and shook my hand.

Now he, too, is gone. And my romance with the Braves is over.

I had began watching the Detroit Tigers anyway when I bought a satellite dish from Dewayne Lawson's uncle, Clarence Lowe. They became my "rebound" lover. But, it will never be the same. You never quite forget your first love.

I won't watch the Braves this year. I can't do it without Skip and Pete. I don't see the point.

But they and the Braves brought me pure, innocent, child-like joy for 24 years. I'll never forget it.

Somewhere in my memory, it will forever be the dog days of summer, 7:35 p.m. Eastern, Skip and Pete, Greg Maddux on the mound, a "chopper to Chipper."

You'll have to excuse me now. I must go wipe whatever this watery stuff is out of my eyes.

Just what I needed...

Ol' Skip is still making me laugh, even though he's passed on into the hereafter.

I've taken Skip Caray's death pretty hard, partially because he's been such a part of my summers, partially because it happened in the midst of a few other disappointments. Last night, I alternated between TV and radio to hear what the Atlanta Braves family had to say about this special guy. It was just what I needed.

Joe Simpson told several hilarious tales on TV. I laughed for about 10 minutes over an incident with Vanilla Coke.

Apparently, the Coke people wanted Joe and Skip to drink Vanilla Coke on the air and talk about it. Skip hated that kind of thing. He balked. But the powers-that-be told them they had to.

So, they brought up a couple of Vanilla Cokes. Joe started guzzling his, despite the fact it was burning his eyes and all those things that happen when you chug a carbonated beverage. When he finished, he let out an "ahh", turned to Skip and said, "That was great. How did you like yours?"

Skip's classic reply?

"I didn't, the 2-1 pitch..."

Pete Van Wieren was his usual professional self, but you could tell his heart wasn't in the broadcast last night. I went to sleep to the cadence of his voice, holding on to what's left of the familiar, though in my heart I know that what made the Braves special is gone forever.

An Atlanta columnist said it much better than I can:

"Skip and Pete were simply the best — Van Wieren would give us the numbers, and Skip would supply the attitude. Whether the year was 1982 or 2008, hearing those two voices made us feel a part of something that transcended beginnings and endings, something that always was and always would be."

I know what he means. You couldn't count on girlfriends, you couldn't count on the weather, you couldn't count on much of anything really, but you could always count on the fact that Skip and Pete would be there every spring, right on schedule, to brighten your evenings for the next six months.

It's gone now, maybe right when I needed it most. But, it's hard to complain, because Skip provided so many memories, countless moments of pure joy.

Laughing at his quips last night, I realized just how special Skip was, and, too, how much less I would have enjoyed this ride without him.

Saying goodbye

I was somewhere between Barley's and home last night when I got the news.

Skip Caray, the acerbic, nasal-voiced prankster that was such a highlight of many many years of Atlanta Braves baseball broadcasts, is dead. Died in his sleep, they say. Skip was 68.

Skip was practically a member of the family. For roughly 3 1/2 hours, virtually every night from April to September during the last 20 or more years, Skip and/or his partner Pete Van Wieren would keep me company. We made it through the lean years of the mid-to-late 1980s together, and celebrated together through all those division titles and the 1995 World Series.

His father, the legendary Harry Caray, was better known nationally, but to a couple of generations of Braves fans, Skip was as much a part of a Southern summer night as Harry had been for Cardinals and Cubs fans.

He was witty, he was cantankerous, he was irreverent ("And, like lambs to the slaughter, the Braves take the field..."). I can't believe he's gone.

Got home last night and just sat in the dark for a few minutes. Maybe only baseball fans will understand this, but I feel like I've lost an old friend.

Skip and Pete not only kept me company on countless summer nights, they both got me through a bad case of depression a few years ago. I met Skip last summer, but couldn't seem to put what I wanted to say into words. I sometimes have that kind of trouble when talking to people I admire.

He hadn't been around too much these last couple of years. TBS kept cutting back Braves broadcasts, ceasing them altogether at the end of last season. Skip was on the radio a bunch and worked several TV games this year on Peachtree TV.

I can't imagine not ever hearing that nasal voice again or laughing at his wit ("The bases are loaded and I wish I was..."). His talent was such that he could make an otherwise worthless ballgame into a great broadcast.

So long, Skip. I wish I had more writing talent so I could give you the goodbye you deserve.

You were the best, pal. It won't ever be the same. We'll never forget you.

The last innocent summer

So how pathetic is this?

I'm curled up in my recliner, wearing PJs at noon, watching "Dark Shadows" and eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I'm feeling better, but still not great, and so here I sit, watching this nonsense ("You can't kill me. I'm already dead!"), eating a kid's meal. After awhile, I'll turn the clan from Collinsport off and watch Justin Verlander and the Tigers stare down the Baltimore Orioles at Camden Yards.

Funny, but this is close to how I spent an entire summer, 15 years ago. Well, minus the migraines.

No, I didn't get headaches back then. Didn't really have a care in the world. That summer, the last innocent summer you might say, I slept late, read books, immersed myself in Dan Curtis's crazy dream each weekday morning at 11, and watched baseball in the balmy evenings.

Looking back, I guess it was a lonely summer, but it didn't feel that way then. I didn't have a point of reference to know any different.

I call it the last innocent summer, because soon after that I met this dark-haired girl, fell in love, and, well, life never has been quite the same.

But that summer, I cared about Fred McGriff coming over to Atlanta from Toronto. I lived and died with the Braves then, TBS, 7:35 p.m. Eastern, Skip and Pete, Don and Joe. Terry Pendleton at third. Dave Justice (damn him for taking Dale Murphy's place) in right, Marquis Grissom, Jeff Blauser, the Lemmer, Tom Glavine on the mound.

And, "Dark Shadows," my goodness. I knew more about Barnabas Collins than I did about the neighbors across the street. It's silly to think about now, the devotion that only a child can give to a TV show. Every now and then I'd get bored and watch a John Wayne western. "El Dorado," for about the 100th time. In the afternoons, I'd sit in the sun, and read books. I've forgotten what -- I'd graduated from the Hardy Boys by then -- but the titles are lost to time.

But the summer ended, as they always must. Then my dad sold his house, and I didn't get the Sci-Fi Channel and "Dark Shadows" anymore. I kept the Braves, but that fall I met that little dark-haired girl with the perfect teeth, and my priorities changed, probably for the worst.

Now I'm 15 years older, but still watching baseball, immersed again in "Dark Shadows" (thank you, Netflix), am madly in love with several dark-haired girls.

What is it they say about the more things change...?

Saying thanks to Pete

ATLANTA -- The man was sitting by himself just outside his barbecue joint. I debated on whether to bother him, finally decided I needed to say thanks.

Several years ago, when they first told me about the Black Dog, one of the things that got me through a rough period was listening to Pete Van Wieren and Skip Caray call Atlanta Braves baseball games. I'd been a fan from way back, before anybody came to watch the Braves, back when the team often found itself lodged in the cellar of the National League West.

Pete and Skip called every game on the old WTBS Superstation. You could count on them being there, season after season. After a few summers, they began to feel like old friends.

Pete was the serious one. They called him the professor. His concise delivery contrasted nicely with Skip's acerbic wit. I guess I've spent more time with Pete and Skip (3 hours a night on average, six months a year, for about 20 years) than anybody else outside the family.

Things changed, as they always do. For awhile, the Braves became one of the best teams in baseball. Then that, too, changed.

Pete and Skip are no longer on TV. (Skip does call a few games on Peachtree TV). WTBS doesn't even carry the Braves anymore. Pete hangs out solely on the radio.

Last night, I walked up to him, introduced myself, shook his hand and told him how much he and Skip have meant to me down through the years, especially during the dark days. He smiled, said "wow" and "thanks" and shook my hand.

Thanks for everything, Pete. You're the best.

The livin' is easy

CARTERSVILLE, Ga. -- What a week.

Sure has been one to remember. Singing with Robinella, hangin' out and talkin' with a good friend for hours on the deck, Biltmore Estate, bistros in downtown Asheville, barbecue with pals on the Fourth.

And now, baseball, the Braves and Astros, in the ATL.

Don't like the drive. Had some time to kill, so we bypassed the Indy 500 that is I-75 and came down Highway 411, through south Maryville and down through Tennessee into Georgia. Nice jaunt through the heartbeat of America.

"You know," J.M. says, "the president and everybody in Washington should have to drive down a stretch like this at least once a month. Just so they see how most Americans live."

We passed an old A@W drive-in. I was tempted to get a root beer, but we kept going. Drove by the little theater in Etowa, where I once heard several groups sing that good ol' gospel music, back in the day.

Saw a place advertising glider rides and figured that would make a good story. Wonder if I could talk Scripps into paying me to drive around the backroads, looking for people, telling their tales?

Nah. Gas is too expensive.

We're chillin' at the hotel before navigating I-75 into the ATL. The Braves managed to win one last night. They are 4-7 during their last 11. The Astros have lost four straight.

I left my Braves Hawaiian shirt at home. But, I've got a pencil, a scorecard and money for something cold to drink.

Summertime, and the livin' is easy.

Scully, Dodgers chase away the Braves and Tigers blues

One of the simplest pleasures of life has to be listening to Vin Scully call a baseball game.

What a strange, frustrating season this has been. The star-studded Tigers have imploded. The Braves can't figure out how to win on the road. The Smokies aren't even worth mentioning.

So, I've found myself drawn to Dodger games, mainly because of the team's longtime, velvet-voiced announcer. (Just to give the uninitiated an idea of how long he's been around, Scully was calling games when the Dodgers played in Brooklyn.)

It works out rather nicely. When Los Angeles is playing at Chavez Ravine, or in Pacific time, the games begin around 10 on the East Coast -- usually about the time I get home or have a chance to unwind long enough to watch. They aren't that great, but they aren't bad.

Best part is I don't much care what happens. It's baseball. More to the point, it's Vin Scully calling a baseball game. That's enough.

Put the game on last night after work. Sat on the couch awhile and chilled out.

The Dodgers were playing at San Diego, a place I have to visit someday. The crafty right-hander Greg Maddux was on the mound for the Friars. The kid pitching for Los Angeles, Clayton Kershaw, had a sweet curve and a wicked, if sometimes wild, fastball.

Maddux, by the way, has been pitching longer than Kershaw has been alive.

I lost myself in the cadence of Scully's delivery, finally giving up on the game to make a few phone calls before bed. The Los Angeles Times tells me this morning that Russell Martin was the hero in the Dodgers' 7-2 victory.

Hearing Vin Scully, though, reminds me how much I still love this child's game, even when my boys of summer ain't doing so hot.

April's a long, long time...

It's starting early.

Came home from work last night and flipped on the TV. Basketball here, steroids news there, blah, blah, blah. Even TCM let me down.

I eventually threw in the Ken Burns documentary and watched the episode about the Black Sox scandal of 1919. But what I really wanted was a real, live game to watch.

April, and baseball, is a long, long time.

Unless I change my mind, I have my big 30th birthday bash planned. Well, I'll do the usual gathering of family and friends, but my big present to myself next March is going to be a trip to Florida, to spring training, and as many games as I can afford.

The Tigers play in Lakeland and the Braves hang out in Orlando at Disney's Wide World of Sports complex. Those should be easy enough.

Was hoping to get another UT baseball trip planned to somewhere fun, like Tallahassee, where Dewayne Lawson and I caught the Vols against the Seminoles last February. But the Big Orange isn't traveling this year until the SEC schedule. The best options there are Athens and Columbia.

My friend Kurt Pickering e-mailed a great little story the other day. Kurt is a longtime season ticket holder for the Nashville Sounds AAA club. When he moved 250 miles away to Georgia to take another job, Kurt renewed his tickets anyway.

He says he made it to exactly half of the team's home games during 2007 ("Thank God for weekend home stands.), a feat that puts me to shame. I'm often dissuaded from going to Kodak to see the Smokies because of the 20 minute drive.

Anyway, the Sounds are having a big bash for Kurt in January. He's been named that team's fan of the year. I'm planning to go. Nothing puts a smile on my face quicker than someone's insane passion for the game.

So the temperature is refusing to make up its mind, the dreary dregs of January and February loom before us, and the national game, and the fond promise of spring, is a long time coming.

Now I know why bears hibernate for the winter. This sucks.

Good-bye to all that

Just after 4:30 this afternoon, when the last gasp of my childhood slipped quietly into the early autumn sun, Skip Caray said that a page has been turned.

But, for me anyway, it is time to find a new book.

Thirty years and a million memories later, TBS is no longer broadcasting its flagship program, Atlanta Braves baseball. The final episode was forgettable, a 3-0 loss to Houston, that will be remembered only as Craig Biggio's final game -- and as the end of an era.

I told J.M. Ramsey, who came over to toast one last drink to the Bravos, that I guess I've spent more time with Skip and his longtime broadcast partner Pete Van Wieren (and Ernie Johnson and Chip Caray and Joe Simpson and Don Sutton) than I have members of my own family. Think about it. Three hours a night, six months a year, for something like 20 years. Hard to believe.

But the memories linger.

The really awful years, losing 18 in a row. But Skip made turning in a must. It didn't matter that the Braves were awful. This was, after all, a family -- and families stick together when the going gets tough.

There were moments. Rick Camp. The first few games of '82. That 19 inning affair with the Mets on July 4-5 of '85. Murph. Chuck Tanner. Bob Horner's four dingers. (OK, forget about Chuck Tanner.)

But then, like a beautiful, insane dream, 1991 happened, worst-to-first, the "you've got to be kidding me" season for the ages. And they kept winning and winning and winning.

Smoltz. Glavine. Maddux. Crime Dog. The Lemmer. Sid's slide. Beating the Indians for the whole damn thing in '95. The Baby Braves of the new century.

I was a kid when it started and was well into my career when it stopped. Through it all, Skip made you laugh and Pete wowed you with his brain. Joe and Don were pretty cool, too. And we'll never forget dear, sweet Ernie.

TBS hasn't been the same for many moons. Dean Harned would tell you the beginning of the end came with the takeover by Time Warner, when his beloved WCW wrestling was canned in 2001.

This is true; but there was more. "Andy Griffith" reruns, redneck movies like "Walking Tall" and, yes, professional wrestling all disappeared, gone with the wind you might say. Corporate blandness took over, indicative of the politically correct effort in this country to eradicate regionalism, destroy anything that makes a people unique, proud of where they're from. What's amazing, looking back on it, is that the Braves survived as long as they did.

So now it's over. I feel like I've lost a best friend.

Oh, the Braves will continue, on Fox and other regional telecasts. Simpson has survived the changes and at least Boog Sciambi has made us all forget about the horrible nightmare that was Bob Rathbun. Skip and Pete will hang out on radio and show up on a new regional channel, Peachtree TV, that we may or may not get here in Knoxville.

But this is it. The era is over; the old picture show has closed its doors.

Knowing this would soon happen, I began weening myself off the Braves, like the addict kicking the habit. Satellite TV means I can watch my other team, the Detroit Tigers, nearly every night anyway. The Internet means I can listen to Skip and Pete if and when I choose.

It is a death in the family, but two decades of sweet, sweet memories will never die. I could write a million words and never tell these guys, and this team, how much they have meant to one little baseball fan in one little corner of the world.

So good-bye to all that. Go to hell, TBS. Make yourself over to look like the other, undistinguishable, 500 other channels on the dial. Your ratings won't be that good and you'll never know the loyalty, or the love, we gave Ted Turner's station -- and this baseball team.

But as the sun sets on a sad moment, here's to you Skip, Pete, Ernie, Joe, Don, Chip, Glen and the crew. It may seem trite to say it, but this journey called life won't be near as much fun without you.

Meeting Skip

ATLANTA, June 24 -- Forget the scoreboard.

Sometimes the cosmos, and the baseball gods, and whatever else you want to mention, all come together to create something really special. Something you talk about, laugh about for days afterwards.

Something you never forget.

Such it was tonight at Turner Field. And it had nothing to do with the game.

Nope, the baseball was forgettable. Atlanta lost a laugher 5-0 to the surging Detroit Tigers. About the only interesting thing on the field was impressive plays by Atlanta's Jeff Francoeur and Detroit's Carlos Guillen (AL player of the week, by the way).

But something happened before the game. Something I'll never forget.

We get to the ballpark early, as is my custom. I like parking before the horde arrives. I like to walk around the park, soak up the sounds.

An 8 p.m. start meant we hadn't eaten yet. So we ease over to the BBQ joint in the stadium -- only to find longtime Braves announcer Skip Caray signing autographs!

Skip has been my longtime connection to the Braves. I've spent more time with him and Pete Van Wieren than I have members of my family. He kept us chuckling when the team was losing 100 games a year. He kept us excited throughout all the championship runs in the '90s.

And there he was, friendly as can be, signing a publicity photo for the folks in line. I tried to think of what to say. How do you tell a guy thanks for nearly 30 years of memories?

Skip takes one look at my Braves Hawaiian shirt and says two words.

"Nice shirt."

I laugh -- you always do that with Skip -- thank him and tell him he's brought me many years of joy.

"I'm glad to hear that," Skip says.

He tells Drew Weaver (who addresses him as "Mr. Caray") to call him Skip -- then asks Drew if he has a military background. Drew wears a buzz cut and says "sir" a lot.

Drew says his dad is a Marine. Skip smiles and says "Good."

Off we go. I'm still on cloud nine. I don't think much about the game. I keep checking to see if Skip's autograph is OK.

It was something. The whole thing felt like one of those MasterCard commercials.

Braves parking pass: $10

Ticket to a Sunday night game: $39

Gas for the truck: $50

Meeting Skip Caray? Well, you know the answer to that one.

Priceless.

Where your riches lie

MACON, Ga. -- Friends and family.

That's where it's at, man. Don't let anybody tell you different.

Here in Macon, the home of Otis Redding and Atlantic soul, we're whiling away a Saturday night with Dewayne and Bridget -- and their new son Jacob. He's a sweet kid.

Jacob snores gently, in that cute newborn way, while we talk about high school, and college, and how the weather was. He's a cute kid; he takes after his mother.

We took in a Braves game on the way down I-75. Justin Verlander of the Tigers pitched a beauty. He mixes his fastball, change-up and curve to create the purest of baseball poetry. The Motown boys win 2-1 in a pitcher's duel for the ages. It's hot, but that gets lost in Verlander's art.

The guy beside us sports a Brooklyn Dodgers hat. He tells Drew where to find it. We chat baseball. He and his wife drove over from Aken, S.C. She's celebrating her birthday by rooting on her home state Tigers. She goes home happy.

Real reason for the trip is to see Jake. He's a dandy. Bridget says he's a good baby. Sleeps till nine, barely cries.

Life takes its turns. Folks come and go. A generation cometh and a generation passeth away.
But when the sun sets, like it did tonight on this red Georgia clay, all that matters is friends and family. Even baseball, that beautiful, wonderful first love, is just a game.

Take it for granted. Take the air you breathe, the sun, the moon, the freedom of America, for granted too. Act like it's ours by birthright.

But don't ever overlook family and friends. Therein lies your riches.

Just look in a newborn baby's eyes if you don't believe me.

Overcoming the obnoxious

ATLANTA, June 18 -- Sometimes you find a little retribution in a long fly ball.

I can take a lot. I like to think I've become a "live and let live" type in my old age. But I have no tolerance whatsoever for rudeness. Just won't stand for it.

Which is why the Atlanta Braves' 9-4 win here at Turner Field over the Boston Red Sox was so delicious. I've never seen a bunch that deserved a come-uppance more than the Sox faithful in attendance tonight.

Well, maybe it was just my section. But it was bad. Loud chanting and screaming in that obnoxious Yankee accent (shudder). Women in Sox shirts trying to sit in other people's seats. Some jerk putting his fat ass right in front of an innocent fan who's just trying to keep score.

And then, after home runs by Scott Thorman and Brian McCann --- silence. Sweet, beautiful silence. Well, except for the cheering Atlanta faithful.

I'm a little different than most fans. Baseball is serious business. I treat it as such. I keep score. I pay attention. I don't stand up in my seat or disappear for two innings. I could care less about The Wave and whatever stupid promotion is going on the Jumbotron. (Why do we need a Jumbotron anyway? Why can't some old bag just pound away on an organ?)

So maybe I'm biased --- or just crazy. But I don't see the point in acting the fool, especially when such a glorious game is unfolding before your eyes.

At two places can you find me at my heart's content --- the cabin on the lake, and the baseball park. Thus it was today. As the late spring sun began to set over the Atlanta horizon, Turner Field was backlit by the most ethereal glow you've ever seen. I could almost hear Shoeless Joe Jackson (well, let's say Eddie Mathews since we're in Atlanta) whispering from beyond.

The obnoxious Red Sox fans almost spoiled it. The Braves took care of that, though.

To be fair, it wasn't just Sox fans. One Atlanta partisan was thrown out of the stands for fighting. Another was too busy stuffing his face with food to watch much of the game (or give Dewayne Lawson much room to sit down).

So it goes.

But this is baseball, this is offensively-powered, fun to watch baseball. Such a game is resilient. It can overcome a lot -- even the obnoxious.

Almost perfect

What a day.

Were it not for the fact that my right kidney's stones are now moving and causing agony, yesterday would have been perfect.

First and foremost: My dear friends Dewayne Lawson and Bridget Trogden are the proud parents of a new son, Jacob Paul Lawson. Mother and son are doing fine. Proud papa made my day when he called.

Tears filled my eyes when I heard the boy's name.

The legendary Ernie Harwell, 80-something years young, was the guest commentator on the Tigers game yesterday afternoon. Ernie's the best of the best.

He tells a great story during the game about a Tigers player who began his career here in Knoxville when the Smokies were a Tigs affiliate in the sixties. After a while the player was sent to the old Atlanta Crackers. Ernie says the Crackers' stadium sported a sign in left that read "Hit it here and win a pint of whiskey."

That Cracker became a switch hitter.

Detroit took care of the Los Angeles Angels in high fashion 12-0. Jeremy Bonderman mixed his 90 mph fastball and nasty slider rather well for eight innings. His final line was 4 hits, 0 earned runs, 5 walks and 6 strikeouts.

Ernie watches a lot of baseball these days. He catches games on the radio, reads coverage in the newspaper. He's also a popular speaker on the circuit.

"If a guy burps in a movie house, I give a speech," he jokes.

Perfect afternoon it was for baseball in Motown. Packed house, loud fans. There's something special, almost ethereal, about day baseball. Seeing the boys sporting the old English D in the bright sunshine, backed by that velvet Southern voice, conjures up the intangible something that was once great about this game.

Last night, crafty Atlanta veteran John Smoltz shut down the New York Mets to earn his 200th win. The Braves are within a stone's throw of first place.

Almost perfect, man. Almost perfect.