How do I adequately describe in words something that evokes the most visceral feelings in me and expect those words to bring forth the same feelings in you? What is the perfect language to use to illustrate the beauty of America’s pastime as more than a game? What observations can I make that are unique, special, and complete? It is quite impossible and exceptionally personal, I think.

Baseball is interwoven into countless of my positive memories going back to my earliest childhood, and a beacon in navigating my most difficult time.

To me it is this simple. Baseball is magical.

My closest friends and family may not know I have a long standing love affair with baseball. They might be shocked to learn that this rather avid and vocal football and hockey fanatic feels a much stronger affinity toward baseball. After all, I can’t name the most famous current baseball players, recite Hall of Fame inductees, name even half the players on my favorite teams, or tell you who won the last five World Series. I have kept my baseball affair a closely guarded secret, like most affairs are. I continue to fade in and out of baseball, always drawn back to it by sentimentality or notable event.

Baseball is my own personal searchlight.

It’s really not surprising. Baseball is in my blood. Growing up in a small desert town, our lives seems to revolve around baseball. Mom and Dad were heavily involved in West Barstow Little League, doing everything from coaching to working the concession stands to umpiring to league administration. My brother was the Little Leaguer for part of the time, and I was just along for the ride. My Mom worked in the Little League concession stand at Foglesong Park, and even worked up to the day I was born. I thus earned the nickname “Snow Cone.” It is a moniker that embarrassed me for years, but I now wear it proudly. Show me someone else in your circle with such a nickname.

I spent numerous hours at the ball fields during the Little League years, but sometimes preferred playing on the unsafe playground structures such as the old tank or the giant rocket slide designed specifically to trap little limbs. As I grew older though, the game of baseball beckoned me. When I was about nine or ten years old, my relationship with baseball started to change and mature. It was no longer just something we did. I started to notice and long for all things baseball. Little things were important like the dull clanking of a bag full of aluminum bats in a duffle bag, something you may have only paid attention to if your dad was a coach. It was the pungent smell of leather and the crisp crinkle of tissue paper as you unwrapped a brand new baseball packed in a small cardboard box. It was the sight of someone hanging numbers on a scoreboard, something I yearned to do myself.

The time finally came one game where I graduated to scoreboard duty. I got to climb the rickety wooden ladder, walk across the ledge and hang tin numbers from rusty hooks. The scoreboard job was challenging, much more so than I expected. It required that I actually pay attention to every aspect of the game and take my cues from the announcer and the umpire, who seemed amazingly far away. Still, it was thrilling to be in charge of such an important responsibility, even if the importance was only in my imagination.

And the game was social. After games was reserved for visiting some of the businesses who generously sponsored the teams. Pizza at the Pizza Palace, watching old silent films, sitting on long wooden benches, drinking pitchers of soda and eating mediocre pizza. Foster’s Freeze was another favorite spot. I loved their spiral cut hot dogs and their cartoon character glasses (if you paid the extra fee). I had a whole collection of glasses featuring my favorite Warner Brothers cartoons characters – Bugs Bunny, Speedy Gonzalez, Foghorn Leghorn…you name it, I had it. Those after game experiences were synonymous with the game of baseball itself.

At one point during my childhood, my Dad coached a team that seemed to be akin to the Bad News Bears of Barstow, except that they were the Pirates. He whipped them into shape and turned them into a winning team. A girl even joined the team, the first ever. I was so much in awe of her. I thought she was incredibly brave to play with all boys and I knew it was something I would never be able to do myself. I was completely enamored with the idea that if I had the guts to, I could play this amazing sport.

My Dad followed the California Angels then, and still does today. When I was about ten, he took me to a game at the Big A. I was so intimated by the size of the stadium, a bit scared actually. I received an Angel’s windbreaker for being one of the first kids into the ballpark. I treasured that windbreaker like it was the highest quality garment ever produced. It was at this game that my Dad did something that I value to this day. He taught me how to keep score, old school. He was so patient with me, showing me how to number the players and indicate what happened when they were at bat. We scored the whole game. It felt like I had learned a secret language, the language of baseball.

Not long after that I became infatuated with the Los Angeles Dodgers. I don’t know why I chose them over the Angels, but I did. Nor did I realize that I was transforming my interest to a new ball field, so to speak. Following professional baseball was such a wonder for someone like me. It was a calming ritual, reliable, structured and constant. I came to rely on baseball as my summer companion, my faithful friend.

While we never made it to Dodger Stadium, my sister and I still followed the Dodgers unwaveringly. Every game was called by Vin Scully on the AM Radio dial. Vin would tell wonderful stories about the players and teams without missing a pitch. I have a special place in my heart for Vin.

The 1977 Los Angeles Dodgers was my favorite team ever, of all the sports and all of the teams I have watched. I joined the Dodgers fan club then. I knew them all. Steve Garvey, Steve Yaeger (my favorite player ever), Ron Cey (the Penguin), Bill Russell, Rick Monday, Davey Lopes, Dusty Baker, Reggie Smith. Don Sutton and Tommy John were some of the well-known pitchers, but I was partial to Rick Rhoden. In addition to being cute (forgive me, I was twelve years old and a bit boy crazy) he was a great hitting pitcher. Who can forget Tommy Lasorda, the best manager ever?

As a child, I couldn’t articulate why Steve Yaeger was my favorite player but knowing the things I value now it makes perfect sense. Steve was a solid player, not arrogant, not flashy. He could throw out a runner at second base with a 90+ miles per hour rocket from a crouching position and act like it was just part of his job, because it was.

Shortly after my love affair with that 1977 Dodgers team began, we moved to Denver, Colorado for my Dad’s job transfer. Moving from small town U.S.A. to a big city, and at the point where I was entering junior high school was very challenging. I had a hard time and struggled most of my school years to find my place.  After a year or so, I stopped following baseball closely because Denver didn’t have a major league team. It was also hard to follow the Dodgers as closely with no radio coverage and limited television coverage.

But after a bit of time, my sister purchased season tickets for the Denver Bears, the AAA affiliate for the Montreal Expos. And just like that, my old friend, baseball, again filled my summers with constant company.

We went to every home game, sitting directly behind the home team dugout. Many of the players said hello to us every night, and one of them always called my Mom “Mom.” I had crushes on most of them (yes, there is a theme here called “boy crazy”). Having passed up my chance to play baseball in Barstow, I decided that being a batboy for a minor league baseball team would be just as good. Even though I had never seen a girl work as a batboy, it didn’t stop me from submitting my application to the Denver Bears organization. I wasn’t selected, but can still recall the feeling of thinking I might be.

Minor League baseball in a fully supported market is a surprising joy. It is very interactive and personal, and you have the opportunity to truly see careers being launched. You feel like you had a part in starting something special in someone’s life. You sit up close, and can see and hear and feel the game. The team had a mascot, the KIMN Chicken from KIMN radio. He was fashioned after the famous San Diego Chicken. The KIMN chicken would keep the small crowds entertained, doing backflips, showing eye charts to the umpires, dancing on the dugouts, and sneaking up on people in the stands. The KIMN Chicken kept us entertained between the baseball action.

Mile High Stadium, where the Denver Bears played, was never an exciting stadium design but it was comfortable to me. After a while of going to the games and becoming friends with the fellow fans, the police officers working security, the players, and the vendors, it was time for me to try my hand at a part-time job. I worked at the stadium selling snow cones (yes, snow cones) and cotton candy. The money was good, the job was fun, and I felt like I had come full circle. I was home again.

The Denver Bears later became the Denver Zephyrs, and during that transition we ceased buying season tickets. Life then got in the way, as it generally does. Marriage, moves, children, work. I moved to South Carolina after I got married and later ended up back in Denver. I had stopped following baseball at all, and there was a sadness in my heart that I didn’t even know.

One day in Denver after a particularly difficult time, I took my usual drive to clear my head. I ended up at the movie theater and saw the first movie I had ever gone to by myself, “Field of Dreams.” Something about that movie must have been calling to me. For 90+ minutes, I was transported into another world that I completely recognized. It was about baseball, and dreams, and nostalgia, and forgiveness. Every minute of it was enchanting and cathartic. I still feel that way about it, and will watch it alone or with anyone who wants to reminisce with me. I like most baseball movies, but “Field of Dreams” is always at the top of my list.

I polled my friends recently about their favorite baseball movies: Field of Dreams, The Natural, Bull Durham, Bad News Bears, Moneyball, For the Love of the Game, Major League, A League of Their Own, and Eight Men Out. These movies speak to my friends for their own reasons, some just as simple as the movies being entertaining. But others find great reminders of childhood and important moments in their favorite baseball movie. I liked it best when my Dad declared that, “I’ve never met a baseball movie I didn’t like.” With only a few exceptions, the backdrop of baseball can make a good storyline great.

After the “Field of Dreams” times, we left Denver again, living in California for a few years, and moved back to Colorado in 1991. At that time, Denver was fully working toward something they had been talking about for years – a major league baseball team. The Colorado Rockies (a name that had previously been reserved for their long relocated NHL hockey team, now the New Jersey Devils) became a reality in 1993 and I was once again smitten with baseball. With all of the publicity, it was hard not to get enthusiastic about major league baseball again.

In April, 1993 the Rockies played their first franchise home game at Mile High Stadium, their temporary home until Coors Field was complete. In the bottom of the first, in front of a crowd of 80,000+ fans, Eric Young hit a lead-off home run. You couldn’t have asked for a more charmed start at home for a new franchise. It is these single moments that define baseball. Despite their struggles that first season, the Colorado Rockies set a single game and single season attendance record that I believe still stands. Denver was ready for baseball.

That first season of Colorado Rockies baseball, I found myself in Chicago for a business trip. We took an outing to Wrigley Field to see the Cubs vs. Rockies. Everything about being at Wrigley Field was special. I felt transported into another time. I was rooting for the Rockies, my hometown team, and they didn’t disappoint.   Jim Tatum, a pinch-hitter, hit the very first grand slam for the new Rockies franchise. A single, defining, unforgettable moment in my life.

When the Colorado Rockies moved to Coors Field I was awestruck when I saw my first game there. Built with a gorgeous brick façade, right in the middle of lower downtown, the stadium was reminiscent of old-school architecture and beautifully befitting an older downtown area. Walking from the runway to the seats, I literally gasped when I saw the field. The most stunning manicured grass I had ever encountered, and a perfectly groomed infield. Chalk lines so white they appeared electric, “Rock Pile” dollar seats in the outfield, an elegantly designed scoreboard. It was a magnificently designed hitter’s ballpark that suggested a compilation of every positive baseball memory I had.

I followed the Rockies for a while, but, yet again, life seemed to get in the way. I transferred to Atlanta for work. I did attend some Atlanta Braves games – a winning team with a great following and a great field – but my heart just wasn’t in it. With the pressure of a new and demanding job, a husband deployed to Iraq in the middle of a war, and being thousands of miles away from my family, my mind was elsewhere. But I should have known that the thing to bring me back to life was baseball.

Moving yet again to Denver, I rediscovered the Rockies. I didn’t attend a lot of games, but when I did it was always sublime. There is something about the pace of a baseball game that is captivating. Baseball is not a frantic, loud, or pounding sport. It has a cadence, a rhythm. You don’t even need to like baseball to appreciate a game, for the match allows for gentle or spirited conversation with friends. It is the working man’s dinner party. A “dog and a beer.” But if you love baseball, you have every opportunity to become engrossed in the game. Listen to the broadcast on the radio while watching the game, score the game, watch every ball thrown and decipher what kind of pitch was just thrown – was it a breaking ball? Perfection.

Baseball turned on its searchlight for me again recently, a beacon to help me find my way through the darkness. Through what was a crisis in my life, I made a decision to rebuild my life from scratch and to do that in Las Vegas. It all sounds cliché, yes, but it was the hardest thing I have ever done.  It was about clarifying my values, rediscovering my passions and finding new ones, appreciating and noticing all of the goodness in my life, and making the most amazing friendships. It was about being open to new possibilities and letting the good things just evolve in everyday life. It was about discovering that I am not so bad after all. And then there was baseball.

While having drinks one night with one of my new friends, we turned a serious conversation into something lighthearted when we got into a discussion about favorite movies. I mentioned that “Field of Dreams” was one of my favorite movies. No one had ever before asked me “why”, but he did. I sat there trying to explain the magic of that movie and of baseball. We talked a little about my love of baseball, while I lamented that I had never put down on paper what baseball meant to me. A simple regret. It was something that had been nagging at me. I just wanted my family to know this part of me.

My friend likes baseball and has a brother who is enamored with minor league baseball. These two brothers crossed my path for reasons unknown, but we have shared a series of coincidences and interests since befriending each other. One thing I am sure of is that they were put squarely in front of me to bring me back to baseball. The magic of baseball.

The three of us met up a few times to watch some Las Vegas 51’s minor league baseball games.   With beer in hand (wine for me), we talked about the need to take a baseball road trip including seeing some minor league games. This baseball road trip turned into a journey to Mecca for me, Dodger Stadium.   I was returning to my first love, the Dodgers. And not just the current Los Angeles Dodgers. By beautiful happenstance, there was a Dodgers Old Timers game scheduled to be played directly after the Dodger game we were attending.

To get to Dodger Stadium from Las Vegas, you have to travel through my home town of Barstow. My friends were kind enough to indulge me in a few side trips in my home town, including a stop at Folgesong Park and the ball fields. Although much smaller than I remember, the product of remembering through a child’s eyes, the fields and concession stand remain. A boy was practicing, a Dad was taking care of the field. Another generation of baseball memories being made.

The next day, Dodger stadium.

At breakfast, I was full of nervous energy. I shared with my friends that when I was still married, my husband gave me a Yogi Berra signed baseball and various related memorabilia for one of our anniversaries. Although not a big Yankees fan, I really like Yogi Berra and my husband knew that. My husband had obtained the baseball and bought a display case for it. He also custom matted and framed all of the other memorabilia.   It was one of those presents that I dearly cherished and we agreed the present was for both of us.

I also mentioned that through this baseball adventure I had just learned something about my father. I had always known my Dad to be a California Angels (now the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim) fan. When talking about this essay and our baseball roadtrip, I discovered that my Dad’s first baseball team was really the New York Yankees. One of the times my Dad was so fond of remembering was when Don Larsen pitched a perfect game in the World Series. A single defining moment.

That single Don Larsen Yankee’s moment connected my father and me, decades after it took place. It was a conversation about another part of my Dad’s life I knew nothing about. And that Yogi Berra baseball my husband bought for me many years ago?   It was also signed by none other than Don Larsen. What an amazing accident.

Arriving at Dodger Stadium, I was positively giddy. Entering into the parking lot gates was like entering Disneyland. You could feel the energy and excitement, even if it was only coming from our car. We were ready.

Our first stop was to see the displays of the likes of Vin Scully and Tommy Lasorda outside of the gates. With a few turns of the dial, we could hear the voice of Vin Scully. I was instantly transported to childhood, listening to Vin on the radio.

As we entered the gates, we were handed vintage pennants for it was pennant day. We walked around the stadium to get a feel for it. We loved the gigantic Dodger Dog, the Tommy Lasorda bobblehead, the giant championship ring. One of my friends bought me a Vin Scully yearbook, a nostalgic nod. I was just so delighted to be there. I have been to five other Major League Baseball Stadiums, all with their own charm and history, but none of those experiences evoked the kind of feelings I felt being at Dodger Stadium. I was breathing in the magic.

Looking out onto the field, and seeing the vintage signage, I felt I was experiencing something quite special. Vin Scully gave a pre-game chat shown on the big screens and I knew I was home.

I was entertained at my seat by two brothers doing Vin Scully impressions and other nonsense. And yes, there was a game played that day.   Both teams played a little sloppy during the first half of the game, but the Dodgers turned it on in the end beating their rival, the Giants. It was pure joy.

I was really anxious for the Old Timers game though. When the starting lineup for the Old Timers games was announced, I cried. I was in shock, really. Hearing the names of such baseball greats, and having them actually standing a few rows in front of us, was a defining moment. The type of moment that still brings me to tears.

I knew that several of my beloved 1977 Los Angeles Dodgers were going to be there. What I didn’t know is that almost all of them would be there, including my all-time favorite Steve Yaeger. Perhaps if I followed baseball closely I would have expected Steve Yaeger to be there since he is their catching coach. Oops.

Tim Wallach, who we used to watch on the Denver Bears, was there. And some pretty special players like Sandy Koufax, and Don Newcombe from the Brooklyn Dodgers. Darryl Strawberry was in attendance. Tommy Lasorda was one of the managers and even had a good argument with the umpire during the game.

There were so many other amazing players present, I am sure I will miss some of them: Dusty Baker, Mickey Hatcher, Steve Sax, Mike Marshall, Reggie Smith, Raul Mondesi, Davey Lopes, Reggie Smith, Ron Cey, Eric Gagne, Fernando Valenzuela, Shawn Green, Derrel Thomas, Bill Russell, Ken Landreax, Erik Karros, Rick Monday, Nomar Garciaparra, Maury Wills, Steve Finley, Orel Hershiser, Rick Honeycutt, Tommy Davis, Charlie Hough, Sweet Lou Johnson, Manny Mota, and Jerry Reuss.

I know that Dodger Stadium, the Dodgers, and the Old Timers game didn’t have the same meaning to most of the people in the stadium. It was just another day, just another game, just another visit to the park. For me, my journey through baseball was complete.

My life has certainly taken some twists and turns, all leading to good things.

As for baseball, now, merely hearing the word “baseball” arouses feelings in me of comfort, friendship, laughter, summer, wonder, and warmth. Through the magic of baseball, and two wonderful friends, I have found my way back home.