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When I was a kid, my dad and I would don our jerseys and head down to Fulton County stadium to watch the Braves plan on their home opener. I loved sitting out in the outfield where I could sit near my baseball hero, Dale Murphy, and cheer as loud as I could for him. We would eat, laugh, and watch our favorite team play ball. It was amazing. And I am lying.
I grew up several hundred miles away from the closest major league stadium. I did go to see the Braves play at least once a year, but it was never on opening day, and it was always a major trip that my family planned for months in advance. Dale Murphy was certainly my baseball hero growing up, but I can’t remember ever getting the seats near him, though I did try my best to get down as close as I could, usually over there near Chief Knock-a-homa’s teepee. I was a distant fan, and in my case this kept a damper on my zeal.
Sure I had friends who were huge baseball fans, but it wasn’t anything like the guys I know now who describe their childhood summers spent around the big league stadiums. While they were there living it, I would sit at home and watch a game every now and then, or listen to a game on the radio while I was outside working in the yard. In our area, college football was king and we didn’t go nuts until September. Don’t get me wrong, I respect all of the men and women who watch each and every game they can, but I hope they’ll forgive me if I just catch up on SportsCenter or in the paper the next day. Call me a fair-weather fan, a bandwagoner, or whatever, but I still wore a Braves hat during the 80s when everyone laughed at me, and still wore one during the 14 year streak of division championships. I didn’t live in Atlanta, but I too felt the pain and basked in the glory.

Written by Ben Hirsch