The admirer

Everybody seems to be a fan of something. Ask a Nascar enthusiast who their favorite driver is and you will get an immediate answer. A college football devotee will proudly wear their favorite colors and sing out loud the team’s fight song. But for some, it goes beyond that. Yes, some appreciate and even love a particular sport. For me, I proudly wear the label “The Fan” for what I believe remains America’s greatest pastime, baseball. I am a fan of the game, and these are some of the reasons.

When I was little, and against my mother’s will, I would listen to Atlanta Braves games under the covers on my little AM ​​radio. With the only earpiece on, I would listen to the last ring or fall asleep trying. Night after night, and many miles away, that boy would silently cheer on his favorite team. Even though my alarm clock never showed me any compassion the next morning at six in the morning, not once did it stop my nightly ritual of being “The Fan.”

Staying up until one in the morning to hear losing your favorite team, which in those days was not uncommon, is just one example of being “The Fan.” In fact, that could even be considered a borderline fanatic, which is actually the word “Fan” comes from. Sometimes it’s not good to be a fan, but when it comes to sports, people don’t think twice. Who can paint their face, put on a total show of themselves and get away with it? Only “The Fan”.

As a baseball fan, day after day, I memorized the sports page and could jealously quote the statistics of random players. Of course, I would save some of my lunch money to buy and collect baseball cards. I also methodically cropped box scores, game recaps, and any relevant images to make a scrapbook of my favorite team, which started in spring training and continued throughout the season.

I played my favorite sport since I was four years old and I walked, talked and did my best to emulate my favorite player. Many times in the evening my mother would yell “dinner is ready,” but in the midst of my favorite childhood fantasy, I would throw the ball into the air once more, trying to send it flying over the azalea plants for the game’s winning home run. play. In my mind, I was living a dream that only a few can understand. It’s about baseball and I’m “The Fan.”

Listening to a game on the radio, watching it on television, or experiencing it in person were distinctly different, but each was complete and satisfying in its own way. You see, “The Fan” enjoys the special enjoyment of each memory, and I leave you some of my own.

A long time ago, Saturday summer afternoons were spent watching the Chicago Cubs play on television with my grandfather. The old Polaroid photos remind me of the father and his trip from Florida to Atlanta to watch the Braves play the Dodgers. Then while I was in England, baseball caught my eye, over and over again, as this proud father rocked his little girl to sleep. In the fall of 1991, while in Saudi Arabia, I never thought twice about staying up until three in the morning to watch the Atlanta Braves make their dramatic run from worst to first. And now, I can see the gleam in my son’s eyes when he opens a new pack of baseball cards.

All these memories, and many more, are written in the tablature of my heart. Immortal, they move the soul. They deepen my love for baseball and help define this person I have become, “The Amateur.”

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