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As far back as I can remember, my dad taught me the religion of baseball, always preaching Wrigley Field as the cathedral where baseball was really played.
I’ve been a baseball fan for decades, but last week I saw baseball really played in Wrigley Field.
My father was right.
After the game I stood in the rows behind home plate. Except for more ivy and some lights, I saw the same field my father did as a young boy in the ’30s.
My father is gone now, but Wrigley Field is still here.
I saw real baseball played that night–for the very first time.
