It was a relatively late night for me – we took in our first Nashville Sounds game of the season, so I was up past bedtime and the morning sun’s already hitting me in the face. But it was a lovely night out, except for the long motionless concession lines. (The new owners appear to have miscalculated in that area.) Baseball has always been a field of dreams for me, a space onto which I can project my quirky ruminations about all sorts of seemingly-unrelated things. For instance, I recently presented a talk about John Updike, Ted Williams, death, and the legacy of generations to an association of literary scholars. It’s a sprawling topic that I’ll soon be trying to harness for publication, so watch this space for details. My daughter understands – or is at least aware of – this tendency of mine to relate all to baseball. She returned from her middle school trip to Washington with the perfect souvenir for me: a baseball from the Smithsonian Institution gift shop, imprinted with images of the space shuttle and planets.
My wife snagged a ball last night, too, but its only inscription is the signature of the Pacific Coast League president.