It was like going back in time, that’s only the 2nd time I’ve been back there in 38 years. The memories were so thick I couldn’t process it all, I was overwhelmed. Standing there on the soil that had shaped so much of my childhood. I could hear the sounds of days gone by, smell the hot dogs cooking at the snack bar, hear the banter on the fields, feel my cleats digging in at the plate, the pitch, the swing, the ring of my favorite old red, aluminum bat as it made contact, the feel of it, knowing I got all of that one as I head down the line towards first. So many Saturdays were spent on those fields. I got choked up seeing they honored my old coach, Bob Dalton, by naming the complex after him.
So many memories both good and bad flood my head. The feelings that accompany those memories are coming at me to fast to process. I stand there under the now giant oak trees and remember they were only saplings back then. My dad stood along the fence over there and… I have to leave before I start crying. Everyone knows there’s no crying in baseball. It’s all I can do to choke back the memories, and the emotions that accompany them.
To my son, I apologize for being so damned selfish, and disguising it as righteous holier-than-thou religious bullshit in not allowing you to have the memories I have from playing baseball. I hope you can forgive such a selfish old man.