My baseball experience is spotty and without glory. Baseball doesn’t go well with poor eyesight and limited coordination. But you can learn to love it just the same.
Many summer nights as a boy, I sat next to the wood-grain stereo listening to Cincinnati Reds’ games. The radio signal was stronger if you were near it. Sometimes, my father would drag my sleeping carcass from the floor to the bed when I dozed off during the seventh-inning stretch dreaming of Johnny Bench, Pete Rose or Lee May.