“The game doesn’t change the way you sleep or wash your face or chew your food. It changes nothing but your life.” -Don DeLillo

In 1993, the year the Phillies went from worst to first, my father taught me to keep score. The two of us stood in center field the night we beat the Atlanta Braves for the Pennant and I remember the horse-mounted policeman surrounding the field,  Mitch Williams’ final strike crossing the plate, and my dad hugging the stranger next to us (a doctor from the Main Line).

In 2008, I stood in the 300 level along the first base line as Brad Lidge struck out Eric Hinske. My then-boyfriend-now-husband and I walked all the way to City Hall, hugging strangers ourselves, some maybe from the Main Line and many from the South Philadelphia neighborhood we now call home.

I hold season tickets, listen to Scott and Larry call the games I don’t attend, and have visited half the major league ballparks with the goal to hit them all one day.

I’m chasing those sweet, odd, victorious, meaningful moments. My dad also taught me to appreciate how rarely they come along.


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