Ya can't beat fun at the old ballpark

Miller Park loomed large as we approached it.  To me, it was an edifice of comparable mass and reflective of the mania that is sports fandom in Wisconsin.  It was a sight to be admired, but in context; it was like other ballparks, but different in this way or better in that. My appreciation of its retractable roof and red-brick exterior could only exist in comparison with other such places.

To my son, whose mouth gaped as he clasped my hand and beheld the structure, it was something else entirely.  It was, quite literally, the biggest thing he'd ever seen.  Outside, it was a monument to the big world outside the existence he knew; inside, it was a sensory kaleidoscope.  The cavernous spaces and masses of humanity were seasoned with merchants selling hot dogs, caps, and programs, and the green steel girders were ornamented with banners to the present-day gods of baseball.

He took great joy in matching the number of his ticket to the number on his seat.  Neither one was unique, twenty thousand others just like them existed, but they were his and his alone.  To me, tickets were something not to forget.  To my son, they were remembered.  For a boy of his age, life is about growing up and becoming part of the great big world.  His ticket, the one just like mine and the man beside me whom he didn't know, was proof of a small place that only he could occupy.

As the game went on, I tried to explain baseball to my son. I told him what a strike was, why the outfielders stood where they did, and what each crack of the bat meant.  He was having none of it.  For Liam, the wonders of the being at the game were much more meaningful than the game itself.