Paradise Found

The man walked up the concrete steps slowly, occasionally looking behind him at a little boy who remained in the front row along the left field foul line.

By the time the man reached the top of the steps, a smile had spread across his face. The boy had caught a foul ball, the man said, and he was politely - but aggressively - asking for autographs from every player who passed by.

"I'm 53 years old," the man said, "and I've never caught a foul ball."

The boy, 10 years old, was his son. And they had come to Spring Training in Arizona together to watch professional baseball in the most intimate setting possible.

It's the same reason I flew to Phoenix by myself. To escape the Wyoming "spring", and to watch major leaguers get ready for the 2010 baseball season. Going by myself had its upside - I didn't have to persuade anyone to stay for the entire game, even if it was clearly out of hand by the fourth inning.

But it had its downside, too. I was alone. My boys are still too young to sit still for three-plus hours and watch baseball. And my dad died when I was in high school.

So I wandered around the Camelback Ranch complex by myself, listening to Hall-of-Famers give up-and-coming rookies tips on hitting big league off-speed pitches. I stood beside the bullpen and heard pitchers who were stars when I was a boy teach the next generation how to throw a big league slider.

And I watched fathers chase their sons who were chasing players to get autographs and pictures.

I expected the trip to be exciting, restful, and warm. It was all of those things. What I didn't expect was the constant reminder of all the plans my dad and I had made to go to Spring Training someday. Someday.

We talked about it a lot. In fact, one spring we planned a trip around the country to watch games in every major league stadium. But we never did it. I had all but forgotten those plans until I saw the man beaming while his boy elbowed for position in the front row so he wouldn't miss a chance to meet a ballplayer.

My dad and I shared many interests, but baseball was foremost among them. We suffered together through the dark months, from late October to the start of Spring Training in February. Then we spent our summers playing, watching and reading about baseball.

At almost two years old, my boys can already throw a baseball. Last weekend we started learning to hit off of a tee. And at least four nights a week, they point at the TV and shout 'Go Rockies'.

You were too young this year, boys. But in another year or two, you can stand next to me by the batting cages at the Rockies complex near Phoenix. We'll eat hot dogs and learn to keep score and spit sunflower seeds. I'll chase you as you chase your heroes, politely - but aggressively - trying to get their signatures on the round horsehide trophy that you'll cherish as long as the ink lasts.

My dad and I talked about it a lot, but we never did it.

We will, boys.