I’m up. The still chilly morning air delivers the distinctive scent of slaughterhouses in the vicinity. Hourly freight trains rumbling under my motel bed springs punctuated a typically sleepless night. Waze initially predicted a relatively painless 90-minute trip from San Francisco yesterday, but mercilessly stretched us out towards the business end of a four-hour slog. “Rick,” our broad-smiling server at last night’s chain restaurant steakhouse, evidently has never actually tasted the uncooperative “signature steak.” Nor recognized a flat beer with the telltale, physics-defying meniscus.
I’m sacrificing another weekend to the Gods of travel baseball. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I’m under no illusion that the ironically and iconically-named “Big League Dreams Park” will make any such dreams come true. Perhaps that hasn’t always been the case, but now five or so years into this, I’ve come to realize why I’m here and what’s important. In the early…
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