Today, I am thankful for baseball memories.
I am watching, Field of Dreams, my favorite baseball movie in honor of Kirby Puckett, one of my all-time favorite players.
As a child growing up in Los Angeles, I learned to live and breathe baseball. Every late spring and summer weekend, my dad listened to the games on his transister radio while he worked in the yard or around the house. In second grade, I instantly became one of the "guys" when I voiced my passion for the LA Dodgers. Our teacher, Mrs. Germinder, was from Pittsburgh and favored the Pirates.
I learned to throw, catch, field, pitch and bat. I also learned the rules of the game and how to keep score. I wrote fan letters to several players including Wally Moon (I still have the postcard he sent me). And, although the boys dreamed of becoming the next Sandy Koufax, I aspired to be a teacher, writer and a Dodger wife. I guess that achieving two out of three isn't too bad. In baseball terms, my success translates to a .667 batting average.
For this blessing, I am grateful.