In some ways -- in many ways, perhaps -- it's downright silly to devote too much time and attention to sports, any sport, and certainly baseball is included in that list. However, what I've learned over the past fourteen years or so as my interest and investment in Mets fandom has expanded and evolved, is that dedication to a baseball team is about so much more than simply the stats and debates, wins and losses, camaraderie and divisiveness born of fandom.

My grandfather passed away last night, and among the massive tangle of emotions and responses I've experienced since I learned this news just over twelve hours ago, I have felt gratitude to baseball. Throughout my childhood, my grandfather was a constant presence: he was a steady, quiet, dedicated husband, father, and grandfather. He was the first person there when you were in need, silently and without expectation of reciprocation. He seemed larger than life to me when I was much younger, and after learning more about him, he still seems that way to me today.

Still, when we met, there wasn't always a great deal to discuss. Baseball provided a constant in our lives that we shared, namely his interest in the Boston Red Sox. It is difficult to conjure an image in my mind -- or find a photograph that was taken -- in which he is not wearing the classic "B" emblem baseball cap. I learned today that the children who would visit his residence regularly referred to him as "the man with the Red Sox hat."

He wasn't always up to date on box scores and wouldn't have known StatCast from bombast, but he was always interested in the standings and the headlines. Baseball provided a point of reference, a common ground, a means of small talk that was pleasant and comfortable. When I watched the Ken Burns baseball documentary earlier this year, learning about Ted Williams sparked memories of comments my grandfather had made years ago that suddenly made more sense in the light of my new understanding of history. In some sense, learning about certain aspects of baseball history made me feel connected to my grandfather in much the same way as learning about the history of the United States Army Air Corps or previously unearthed nuggets of family history could accomplish.

There's no great revelation here. In short, baseball's roots in American history and culture as well as the personal history of a loved one provides much more than one might imagine. Selfishly, baseball provides one way for my connection to my grandfather to live on: each day, new games are played, new box scores are released, and I have the opportunity to check in, reflect, and remember. It may only represent one minor aspect of the elements that comprised the man I loved and respected, but it's enough to help me carry on, and for that, I'm grateful.

When I was a kid, I loved playing baseball, but I don't remember watching much or following the game in any real way. While I chose to spend my allowance elsewhere, I respected items like comics and, of course, baseball cards. My strongest connection to the game beyond playing shortstop in tee ball or backyard ball was through the packs of cards I came across in a variety of ways, from receiving them as presents from my grandfather to capitalizing on a deal at our local flea market.

And so, with no real reason to provide, it struck me last week that it might be fun to pick up a pack of baseball cards. I was at Target, about to check out, and the cards caught my eye. After much browsing--and some frustration at there being Yankees and Red Sox team packs but none for the Mets--I settled on the Topps "2017 Opening Day" series. After all, there were "3 inserts per pack," which sounded fun, not that I really knew what those were.

The cards themselves were sharp: neatly designed, crisp cardstock with a glossy coating on the face. As a Mets fan, I was of course looking for a Céspedes or a Cabrera, a deGrom or a Syndergaard, a Granderson or a Flores, or even a T.J. Rivera. Really, any Met would have been exciting. But, alas, it was... wait for the bad pun... not in the cards.

Probably the most fun I had was coming across the Chris Sale card, he lately of the Chicago White Sox but now officially a member of the Boston Red Sox. His numbers, as the reverse side of the card can attest to, are fantastic, and with David Price out for a stretch, Sale is all the more important. I can appreciate the Mark Trumbo "orange carpet" walk card. My favorite card, visually, was the Ryon Healy -- Athletics third baseman -- card... until I read the back of the card, which celebrated a three-run homer off my favorite player of all-time, R.A. Dickey.

Then came a succession of names I could simply toss aside, my Mets honor intact. Brian McCann and Freddie Freeman, former and current Braves respectively, passed through my grip. I paused to read and smile at the feats Giancarlo Stanton has achieved, until remembering how many had come against the Mets wiped the smile off my face. On principle, I couldn't spend more than a moment with (NL East rival) Phillies first baseman Tommy Joseph and even less with (2015 World Series competition) Kansas City Royals outfielder Lorenzo Cain. Being a fan of baseball cards has become so much more complicated in the interceding years since childhood, as I grew into my Mets fandom...

I flew through the remainder of the pack, finding names I've heard of -- the Orioles' Manny Machado and Felix "the King" Hernandez, to name a couple -- and delighted in learning a bit more about them. The rest were a mixture of names I've heard and names I haven't, and last but not least, I came across a visage that made me wonder if Mr. Met had relatives in the game (namely, Mr. Red, the Cincinatti Reds mascot).

All in all, it was fun to pick up this pack of cards, but as I don't collect them or have any practical way to store or display them, I found myself wondering what exactly to do with them. They weren't related to my team, so no use dwelling too long on them. Is this what card collecting was like when I was a kid? I don't remember and don't believe so, though I do remember the cards I picked up spending most of their time in a Stride Rite shoe box. Thus, with one fell swoop, I deposited the cards back in their packaging, taped them up, and resolved to pass them along to a baseball fan younger than I am -- or a collector perhaps, if I knew one -- who can more rightly appreciate them!

Both for the Mets and for me personally, tonight was indeed a night for miscalculations and--at best--glancing misses.  First, there's the obvious: Mets starter Robert Gsellman nearly got through five innings, at least in the sense that he made it numerous pitches into the fifth.  However, he ended up exiting with no outs, and his three scoreless innings hardly made up for the five-run first inning that he oversaw.  All in all, it was a trying night for Gsellman and the Mets, as well as--of course--Mets fans.  

On this night, I had the opportunity to witness the action, or lack thereof, firsthand.  The jeers and taunts that were slung toward the mound from the section I was sitting in were alone sufficient to make me feel for Gsellman.  After all, he wasn't trying to be ineffective.  Unfortunately, on a night when the Mets actually scored a couple of runs off Braves ace Julio Teheran and knocked him out of the game just shy of seven innings, they weren't able to celebrate this minor achievement.  Being down 5-0 before you come to the plate will have that effect...

Meanwhile, my own motivations for attending this mid-work-week game are, as a Mets fan, shameful to admit.  I bought my ticket yesterday in a much closer section than I usually frequent... based on the probable Atlanta Braves starter!

Now, before you click away and delete my blog from your bookmarks, I should clarify: former Met and current Brave R.A. Dickey was the probable up until about twenty-four hours ago.  He is my all-time favorite baseball player: I've watched as many games as I could since he first started as a Met (including subscribing to the MLB app this season so I can watch him pitching for the Braves), and I've read his biography as well as watched Knuckleball!, a documentary in which he plays a significant role.  Since I only attended one game a year previous to last year, I missed him entirely as a Met.  Since he became a Blue Jay, I've had my eye on games he pitched against the Yankees but never quite managed it.  Finally, he signed with the Braves instead of retiring: I have one last chance to witness him at work first hand.  

To cut to the chase and tie this all together, I'll share that I bought a ticket Tuesday morning after much consideration, including gauging the weather for this Wednesday game.  What I failed to take into account was the weather on Tuesday night: a rainout pushed the probables forward, rendering my ticket somewhat disappointing and pushing Dickey into the Thursday afternoon game (for those of us at work this week, it might as well not exist as a live event). 

Still, I've never seen Robert Gsellman pitch, and I've never seen Michael Conforto in person or witnessed Jay Bruce swinging a hot bat or playing first base (he went 0 for 5 when I saw him last September).  After my disappointment at learning I wouldn't be seeing Dickey take the mound passed, my true love of Mets baseball kicked in: this could be worthwhile fun after all!

Several minutes into the game, camped out several rows behind the home dugout, I winced as the sequence went something like this: walk, single, walk, single, single, Mets error, bases-clearing double, and still only one out.  Before long, there were two more Mets errors, and in the fourth, Neil Walker cracked a long fly ball out to right field with the bases loaded and no outs... that dropped into the outfielder's glove, forcing the Mets to settle for a sacrifice fly followed by two consecutive outs to end the inning.

Tonight was truly a night of miscalculations and near misses, and they couldn't have come at a worse time.  Still, there is something special about being up so close to the game of baseball, especially in such a beautiful stadium as Citi Field.  I got to commiserate with a fellow Mets fan I met sitting in the stands, I enjoyed a stroll out across Shea Bridge, and I visited the Mets Hall of Fame and Museum for the first time in a long time.  It was a deeply disappointing game and not at all what I expected, but I got to eat a ballpark hot dog, sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," and see Bruce get on base four times. And that's not nothing.

Oh, and I did get to watch Dickey out in center field while his teammates took batting practice.  The only throwing I saw him do was when he tossed a stray ball into the stands for nearby fans, but there are many games to come this year... and still a chance.  With Noah Syndergaard on the mound for the Mets tomorrow, the same can be said for the Amazin's!

It wasn't pain so much as it was an absolute loss of muscular ability. Muscles I had never previously been aware of had awoken in my body and spoken a message loud and clear: "YOU HAVE OVERSTEPPED."

This is my memory of the morning following my first workout as a young little league player. I was certainly not fated to become a great player or even perhaps a solid player, so it is with some infrequency that I return to my memories as a player. I grew up in a home where sports were relegated to wallpaper designs and sections of the newspaper used solely for shaving, so I had little to no understanding of the game. Signing up for little league allowed me to become familiar with the fundamentals of baseball: the at-bat, basic fielding instincts, etc. I only played two years, but it enabled me to connect with the game in a way that I never have -- and, I imagine, never will -- with any other sport.

This said, the memory I'm sharing today is a simple one: it is my memory of the morning after my first practice. I had never worked out in an organized way before, and this practice engaged us in a full array of athletic activities. We stretched, did push-ups, and ran the bases. We drilled on basic infield plays. We jogged from field to field at my local elementary school.

And it was fun!

Had the memory ended there, it would have read something like this: practice is fun! Baseball is fun! And it was, and it would be again as the actual games began shortly thereafter. However, I had neglected to consider the morning after.

I don't remember the night after my first practice. I Imagine that I dreamt of ground balls fielded cleanly to first or marathon jogs completed smoothly without a change in my breathing. Regardless, I awoke from whatever dreams I may have dreamt and stared -- eyes wide open -- as I attempted to sit up in bed. It was such a simple movement that I had never considered it in any real way before. However, I had time to consider it now as I struggled to sit up and, putting my pride aside, needed to call upon my mother to catalyze my upward momentum.

As the day went on, the pain subsided, and as the weeks and practices piled up, my first morning of pain was but a memory. Still, I have been left with a lifelong impression regarding worthwhile pursuits and initial pain. I've internalized the importance of resilience and the sense that what comes seemingly easily initially may ultimately have a price. In some ways, I'm still learning these lessons the hard way, but it was baseball that served as my initiation to these large lessons.