From One Memorable Game to 30: A Baseball Love Story

I’m 17 ballparks into a quest: to visit every Major League stadium with my husband, Bob. Last week, Southern California added three stamps to our baseball passports. It isn’t just about the checklist. It’s about what the game holds for me—memory, sound, ritual, and a thousand tiny joys that stretch from childhood to now.

I still remember my first Orioles game at Memorial Stadium with my dad—a bright spring day, trees along 33rd Street full of new leaves. We parked several blocks away because he preferred the walk to paying the parking fee. I skipped down the uneven sidewalks while he kept pace beside me.

I don’t remember who won that day. I remember the joy of being with my dad.

Looking back now, I realize that afternoon at Memorial Stadium started something much bigger than a love of baseball. Today, Bob and I have visited 17 of the 30 Major League ballparks, and every trip is about more than the game itself. Each stadium gives us a chance to explore a new city, discover local traditions, and create memories together—just as my dad did with me all those years ago.

We sat on the first-base side, several rows back, with a perfect view of the field. The first baseman, Lee May, quickly became my favorite because he wore my birthday on his back—May 14. Jim Palmer was on the mound, and he was another favorite because, well, he was cute. 

Under an impossibly blue sky, the infield dirt looked smooth as silk, and the grass was perfectly green and freshly mowed in the pattern you only see at MLB ballparks. I soaked in everything—the smell of hot dogs and popcorn, Chuck Thompson’s voice drifting from the booth, the crack of the bat, the thwack of ball meeting leather, cleats digging into dirt.

There were traditions, too. The crowd belting out the “O” in the National Anthem at just the right moment. Singing along to “Thank God I’m a Country Boy” during the seventh-inning stretch. Those moments are as much a part of the game as the baseball itself.

I’m sure we left early to beat traffic, listening to the end of the game on the radio all the way home. I don’t remember who won that day. I remember the joy of being with my dad.

All these years later, the sounds take me right back. The crack of the bat; the broadcaster settling into that familiar cadence; and suddenly I’m skipping down 33rd Street again.

Maybe that’s why every new ballpark feels familiar. Each new park isn’t just another notch—it’s another place where memory and present tense meet. It’s a way to honor where I came from and keep sharing it with Bob, one ticket stub at a time.

Funny how the score fades with time, but the memories don’t.

I don’t remember who won that game, but I remember the man who took me there. And decades later, that’s still my favorite part of baseball.

Go O’s.

I’d love to know—where is your compass pointing?

Maybe it’s every Major League ballpark, every national park, a family tradition you’re passing down, or a dream you’ve carried for years. Whatever journey is calling you, I’d love to hear the story behind it.

Because sometimes the places we remember most aren’t defined by where we went, but by who was beside us when we got there.