Sports and me don’t mix. Blame my DNA.
For evidence, I enter my most recent road trip.
Free tickets and curiousity lured DH and me to watch the Houston Astros play Tampa Bay.
We saw our last Astros game in 1993. As in back in the previous century. Our Astrodome was still the 8th Wonder of the World. Nolan Ryan came back to the old home field to pitch one last time. He blew out his elbow and we never attended another Astros game.
Imagine our surprise last week when, upon arriving at the new‐to‐us ballfield — Minute Maid Park — we spied this. Our first Astros jersey of the night. Ryan? Good old #34 — emphasis on old.
What are the odds that my return to sports would involve the same team and the same player on the same night — 26 years later?
Meaning comes where you find it. Especially when you’re not looking.
By the time we f.i.n.a.l.l.y. maneuvered to our seats, total exhaustion overwhelmed me.
So many people. So much color. So much noise.
Struck out by all the incomings, I returned to my standard healing response: gentle play.
What else to do with a cold pretzel on a hot night?
Look around. Make something new.
Voila! Pretzel + Diamond = Ballpark Playtime. Can you spot the two diamonds?
Afterwards, I turned to my first love: reading.
Yes, I brought books to a professional baseball game. Two of them, because options and variety matter. Like playtime.
My mother taught me well: bring a book because it will always feed you. Life won’t.
Her life‐long mantra echoed in my ear the following morning when I spotted my cousin’s words.
Lila had spotted my reading picture on Facebook. In response, she offered the Compliment of the Year:
Everyone else can take baseball; I’ll take my books.