As I’m writing about baseball more and more, I have fewer and fewer opportunities to sit down and watch a game as a fan. I don’t mean that to sound like a complaint — writing about baseball is a joy and I’m incredibly blessed to have the gigs I have — but it is a statement of fact and it’s a big part of why I write this column each week. This column is part of my attempt to stay grounded in the emotional impact of the sport and it forces me to think about not just what I’m seeing in baseball but how I feel about it. Last night, baseball made me feel things.
I was at Citizens Bank Park sitting in the upper deck to watch the Phillies play the Giants. The crowd was sparse in comparison to the days of guaranteed sell-outs, but still sizable enough that the section I was in was packed. There were countless wonderful moments that I may or may not remember months or years from now — Odubel Herrera’s shoestring catch, the bullpen’s outstanding performance, Maikel Franco’s walk-off and Altherr’s Boner, Cameron Rupp’s mammoth home run to dead center — but there was one thing I know I’ll remember.