SunTrust Park holds 41,500 people. There are even more than that here tonight.
The man taking tickets at the gate is all personality. He says, “Man, we sold out tonight, even our standing-room-only tickets went like hotcakes.”
The Atlanta Braves are playing their first home game of the season, and everyone in the South is here to greet them.
There is magic in baseball. I don’t know how, and I don’t care. Our ancestors played this game. Our daddies taught us to swing while we were in diapers. This magic is not make believe.
I meet Amy and Christopher in the mile-long ticket line. They’re from Dalton, Georgia.
"These tickets were his Christmas present," says Amy. "We're so ready for baseball."
"So ready," Christopher says.
That makes three of us.
My wife came to the game with me. She is not a baseball fan. Even so, after years of marriage, she knows how to keep score, and she knows the infield fly rule. I count this as progress. She knows about the magic here.
We find our seats.
In the row ahead of me is a man from Auburn. Early thirties. Father of three. His name is Darren, his kids are with him. His wife is playing on her phone.
His family wears Auburn University T-shirts with Braves caps.
Darren and I end up having a conversation during the game. This is what men do. We cannot wind our watches and chew bubble gum at the same time. But we can have an in-depth discussion during a baseball game and never miss a play.
My father was the same way. I remember when my father used to change the oil in our station wagon. The dull roar of a crowd would come from a Philco Radio. He would be listening.
“What’s the score?” I would always ask.
“Ain’t good,” he’d say. “Turn it off, I can’t bear to hear it.”
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