They paved paradise and put up a parking lot

I love baseball. I love the dirt, the elegant stitching around the glove and ball, the loss and the win. I love the strength and grace, the stolen bases, the diving catches and everything in between. I love bottom of the inning, bases loaded, tied score and the walk-off win. I love that the beauty of baseball is in the details. I love when the ball finds the hole between shortstop and third, Mariano Rivera’s cutter and the trash talking. I love that baseball to me is a comfortable love affair, one that I can never really shake, even in the depths of winter. I love Joe Mauer even though it feels like an illicit affair. I shouldn’t love bench clearing brawls but a small part of me does. I love the pit in my stomach during extra innings. I love holding my breath, squeezing my eyes shut and waiting to hear the ball hit the sweet spot of the bat. I love the vast expanse of a ballpark, the vibrant manicured grass and the perfect symmetry of a baseball diamond. I love the bleacher creatures, hearing Frank sing New York, New York and seeing dirt all over the pinstripes. I love home runs. I love Sandy Koufax. I love bleacher seats in the summer. I love baseball because my parents love baseball. I love my first cap, which is forever lost, but sometimes I will go searching for it in vain. I love that baseball is about forgiveness.