I became a baseball fan when I roamed the house that I now live in with my own husband and children, looking for attention from one of two grandparents, or an uncle, or, last but most-favored, a great-grandmother, and found them all in front of screens, watching players like Manny Trio, whose name I loved as an 11-year-old, and Steve Carlton, and Larry Bowa, and Greg Luzinski, and Gary Maddox, and Mike Schmidt.  I begged them to tell me what “walk” meant, though they were engrossed in the game, and it took a lot of bugging from me to finally get my great-grandmother to tell me.  My uncle, just 10 years older than me, willingly and patiently played wiffle ball with me (in fact it was his idea and I was the only person available) in the side yard that my husband now mows.  During the wintertime I watched my uncle play Strat-O-Matic and make roaring-crowd sounds.  Summers were melodically accompanied by the voice of the Phillies, Harry Kalas, whose major-league debut happened the year of my birth.  I spent years watching uncles shout out loud over plays, both good and bad, observing baseball elicit the most extreme emotional display from them that I ever saw manifest.  My baseball fanage took a slight hiatus when I was a young adult, as I attempted to assume the rabidity of University of Oklahoma football fans when I lived there.  Once I returned to PA, however, I knew love was permanent for me when my future husband took me home to a houseful of adults enraptured by baseball games.  It is my hope that one day my entire family can be the Phoenixville team’s most dedicated fans!


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