Baseball
(or how I learned to stop worrying and love the designated hitter)
I’ve been a baseball fan my whole life, going back to my first game at age seven (August 16, 1981; Yankees at Tigers; Kirk Gibson hits a three-run home run in the bottom of the ninth to win it 5-4). When they tore down Tiger Stadium, I bought the section sign from the seat I sat in from that game. It’s one of my treasured possessions.
A few years later, my fifth-grade teacher got me hooked on the Cubs. This was fine during the days when you could have an American League and National League team. But slowly, my heart shifted from the corner of Michigan and Trumbull to Clark and Addison. When they closed down Tiger Stadium in 1999, that sealed the deal, and I became a Cubs fan only (though I wish the Tigers well).
Over the years, I’ve made it my goal to go to as many Major League Baseball parks as I can. Entering 2025, I’m at 27 of 30, with only Miami, Texas (Arlington), and Sacramento (I lost Oakland when the A’s moved) to go.
I love to talk Cubs baseball; heck, I love to talk baseball in general. Feel free to ask me anything, and I’ll take a metaphorical stab at a reasonable answer.
