ranting

ranting is a space for my thoughts—sometimes measured, sometimes conspiratorial, always my take.

It’s a space for my thoughts—sometimes measured, sometimes conspiratorial, always my take. I write about news, business, culture, and sports, but with more edge and less filter. I explore ideas that don’t fit neatly inside the baseball diamond. It’s long-form, it’s personal, and it’s not chasing trends.

I’m not interested in reactionary hot takes or viral outrage. ranting is where I think things through, call things out, and occasionally wander into speculative territory—not to persuade, but to process. It’s where I can be a little more blunt, maybe even a little uncomfortable.

If that interests you, feel free to subscribe. Baseball Buddha will remain focused on the game, the craft, the stories. ranting is for everything else.

It’s not just the pace of life, the digital noise, or the always-on pressure. It’s a deeper exhaustion the kind that builds when everything is polished, fast, shared, and performed. Even meaning starts to feel mass-produced.

I’ve watched this unfold in so many ways. After Adderall hit in the late ’90s, academic life changed. PhD students were expected to do triple the work in the same amount of time. The tools made it possible, laptops, internet, research databases but the struggle that once gave things weight disappeared. Everything became faster. Everything became more.

I use my own tools, nicotine and coffee. It dials me in. I focus; I produce. But afterward, I don’t feel accomplished. I feel drained. Because what I’m doing isn’t always thinking, it’s output. It’s survival in a system that won’t slow down.

And now there’s AI. ChatGPT doesn’t just help you think faster, it thinks for you. A book you haven’t read can be summarized in a paragraph. A feeling you haven’t processed can be turned into a caption. It’s efficient, but there’s no friction. And without friction, meaning starts to dissolve.

I just finished The Wayward Bus by Steinbeck. I have had it a long time, I have all of his work. It was panned by critics. I just read it. Slowly. Quietly. And it hit me. The people, the mood, the way it lingered. It worked not because anyone else said it would, but because I let it. I feel it is one of his best books. I’m pissed that I hadn’t read it sooner, but I let others influence me.

That kind of experience feels rare now. We don’t trust our own reactions. We want confirmation. Is this book good? Is this town worth visiting? Is this thought valid? We crowdsource meaning and in doing so, we often lose the chance to form it ourselves.

I’m in Carmel right now. The town is beautiful, tidy, curated. But like so many places, it feels like it was made to be posted. Pleasant, but familiar. It could be anywhere but with beautiful scenery.

I drove down PCH 1 toward Big Sur, and something shifted. The road was open. No billboards. No noise. Just cliffs and coastline. The Bixby Bridge was packed with tourists. It’s stunning. Built in a time when people didn’t have all the answers but still knew how to build something that mattered.

Big Sur still has magic. Even with crowds, it holds something real. The land humbles you. The shops feel lived-in, not staged. The restaurants feel like they belong there. Authenticity hasn’t been erased. Not yet.

That contrast, between the real and the polished, is something I’ve been feeling more intensely. Especially in the way we talk to each other. Or rather, the way we don’t.

I struggle with how polarized everything has become. I don’t mind disagreement. Opposing views are healthy, if they’re reasoned. But what I see isn’t disagreement. It’s tribalism. Emotion. Slogans. An “us vs. them” mindset that makes no room for nuance. I get that in sports, you’re invested, it’s part of the structure. But in real life? In politics? In how we live together?

It confuses me.

We’ve dug in. Picked sides. Built entire identities around conflict. And in doing that, we’ve erased the grey, the spaces where things could be explored, not just fought over. There’s so much we could learn from one another. But we’re not allowed to pause. Everything’s either proof you’re right or proof you’re wrong. It’s exhausting.

Even in my own work, my writing, my photography, Baseball Buddha, I feel the pressure. I create to express myself, not to chase likes. But still, there’s a pull to keep up. To stay in rhythm. To produce, even when I want to slow down. I sometimes dream of supporting myself through this work, but that dream carries a fear, what if it turns the joy into a job? What if I start creating to feed the machine, not myself?

Right now, the thoughts are flowing. But I know I want more than momentum. I want clarity. I want space to think. To breathe. To not worry about the next thing.

Because what I’m really searching for, in books, in places, in people, is authenticity. And the strange thing is, the more I look for it, the more I see how much of the world isn’t.

That’s the fatigue.
That’s the ache.

But also, that’s the hope.

That some things still hold up.

Some places haven’t been flattened.

Some books haven’t been reduced.

Some conversations still matter.

Some people are still listening.

And maybe the most meaningful things are the ones you don’t share. The quiet reads. The long drives. The walks without music. The feeling that something, somewhere, is still worth discovering and keeping for yourself.

I’ve always read. Not because I thought I was particularly bright. In fact, it was the opposite. I didn’t think I was smart at all. Reading was how I tried to close the gap. To understand the world, to feel capable of having real conversations about things that mattered. To get some clarity, or at least coherence.

In the middle of the conversation, he stopped me and said,
“I read a book once. Distant Replay. By Jerry Kramer.”

I asked him if that was really the only book he’d ever read.
He said yes. “Reading’s boring.”

I just said, “Uh.”
And let it hang there.
No retort. No lecture. Just silence.

That moment has never left me.

Not because he hadn’t read much but because he had decided that was enough. One book. One moment of effort. And then the door shut. I didn’t fully understand why it unsettled me back then. But now I do, he had given up on curiosity. And without curiosity, what’s left?

We eventually drifted apart. I no longer see him. And if I’m honest, there are times I’ve judged him, especially when I’ve heard some of the opinions he holds now, usually delivered with conviction but without context. That same dismissiveness he had toward reading shows up in how he sees the world, certain, stubborn, uninterested in learning more.

Meanwhile, I kept reading. Hundreds of books. Some that confirmed what I already believed. Others that cracked open what I thought was true. I don’t read to be “right.” I read to stay open. Because when new information comes in, I want the ability and have the fucking humility, to rethink.

That’s how Baseball Buddha was born. It wasn’t just about the game. It was about why the game matters. It’s about the people in the stands. The culture around it. The stories we carry into a ballpark and the ones we take home afterward. Baseball Buddha is me wrestling with the deeper stuff, about identity, memory, impermanence, character. And yes, about joy.

If all I did was write about stats or trades, I’d feel like I missed the point. I love baseball. But if baseball was all I was, I’d feel like my life came up short. Baseball Buddha has been my way of using the game to talk about everything else, nostalgia, failure, redemption, dignity, silence. The things you can’t always measure in box scores.

And I wouldn’t be able to do it if I didn’t read. If I didn’t reflect. If I didn’t keep trying to understand people including the friend who read one book and decided that was plenty.

We were close once. But the truth is, we made different choices. He stopped questioning. I never could.

He read a book once. And that was it.
I kept going. And I still am.

Because for me, staying curious isn’t just a habit.
It’s a way of being.
It’s the foundation of Baseball Buddha.
And it’s the only way I know how to live.

“Yeah sports, go team!” she would say with a smirk.

We’ve always been close.

We grabbed bleacher seats and soaked up what felt like a postcard-perfect day. Blue skies. Wind gently curling through the ivy. You could smell beer and brats in the breeze. I couldn’t tell you who the Cubs played or who pitched. The details of the game? Long gone.

But one thing I’ll never forget is her asking me, somewhere around the third inning:

"Why do you like this game so much? It’s kind of boring." I don’t think it was “kind of”, it was for her, very boring.

She said it with curiosity, not judgment. But it hit me. Not because she didn’t get it but because I realized I had never really shown her the game. Not the real game. Not the game within the game.

I’d failed to explain the beauty that lives between the pitches.

I hadn’t shared that the left fielder shifting five feet over matters. That matchups, righty vs. lefty, sluggers vs. sinkerballers, aren’t just statistical trivia, they’re tactical warfare. That a catcher calling a changeup after a fastball isn't just mixing things up, he’s setting a trap. That a batter stepping out of the box isn’t stalling, he’s recalibrating the whole plan of attack.

I hadn’t told her that the managers are like battlefield commanders, making micro-decisions that ripple through the rest of the game and into the next. I didn’t teach her how baseball rewards patience and punishes distraction. How a team is managed for the season and not just a single game. Why they’re players playing catch on the first and third base line.

And that day at Wrigley, I started to.

She leaned in. I explained why the pitcher held the ball an extra beat. Why the infield played in. Why this guy got the start even if his stats didn’t impress. I showed her the invisible threads that connect each moment to the next. Baseball became something else for her that day, something layered and alive.

And yeah, she still wanted to leave early. But we didn’t. We made it to the end.

She jumped on the train north. I moved on to my next game that year.

But here’s the part I keep thinking about, what I loved about Wrigley then was that if you didn’t pay attention, you didn’t know what the fuck was going on.

There weren’t massive screens replaying everything. No big digital graphics feeding you every stat. You watched. You asked. You turned to the person next, “What happened?” Or you explained what just happened.

You were in it together.

Now? We look down at our phones. We wait for the scoreboard to confirm what we missed while scrolling. We check standings in real-time. But back then, the scoreboard told you what was happening in baseball time. You waited for it. You looked up and hoped the scoreboard operator working up in the heat would change the score in Pittsburgh or in L.A. And you talked about it. Not online. In the bleachers.

Baseball wasn’t designed for the speed of now. It was built to breathe (It had to be said). To unfold. It teaches you to pay attention to people, to pauses, to the subtle shift of a glove or the tap of a bat.

That day, I realized how much I had taken for granted. That the game I loved wasn’t just mine to keep. It was mine to share. And that sharing it meant more than just buying tickets or watching games together it meant telling the story that lives between the innings, in the silences, in the signs, in the why.

That’s baseball.

And that’s why I still chase it.

I read a lot of baseball books some books about baseball are good. Others are great. And then there are books like Class A: Baseball in the Middle of Everywhere by Lucas Mann; books that transcend the sport altogether. This is more than a book about baseball. It is a study of dreams, ambition, identity, and the quiet struggles of small-town America. It is a book that lingers, one you return to not just for the game, but for the way it captures life itself.

I first read Class A when it was released over a decade ago. I was so taken by Mann’s writing that I interviewed him, eager to understand how he managed to capture the soul of minor league baseball with such depth and honesty. Since then, I have read it four times, and I still find myself picking it up on occasion, not because I need to refresh my memory, but because his writing is simply that engaging.

A Story About More Than Baseball

Mann embedded himself with the Clinton LumberKings, a Class A affiliate of the Seattle Mariners, spending a season documenting not just the players, but the town of Clinton, Iowa, and the people who orbit the game. He does not just write about what happens on the field. He writes about the players' doubts, the long bus rides, the fleeting hope of making it to "The Show," and the quiet resignation that for most, this is where the dream will end.

But what makes Class A special is that it is not just about the players. It is about the town itself, a place struggling to stay afloat in the changing tides of America. The way Mann writes about Clinton feels just as intimate as his observations of the team, capturing the economic and cultural realities that shape both the community and the game.

When I spoke with Mann, I was struck by how much he saw himself in the story—not as a player, but as someone chasing a dream, uncertain of where it would lead. That self-awareness is what sets Class A apart. He does not position himself as an outsider merely observing the game; he weaves his own story into the fabric of the book, making it as much about personal reflection as it is about baseball.

The Beauty and Brutality of Minor League Life

Minor league baseball is often romanticized as the purest form of the game, but Mann does not indulge in nostalgia. He captures the beauty of the game—the crisp double plays, the camaraderie, the moments of brilliance that hint at greatness—but he also lays bare the brutal reality. These players are not stars. They are young men scraping by on meager wages, living in host families' spare bedrooms, knowing that the odds are stacked against them. The dream of the majors is intoxicating, but for most, it remains just out of reach.

Mann does not overdramatize this reality, nor does he treat it with pity. Instead, he writes with empathy, giving the players and the town of Clinton the dignity of being seen.

Why Class A is a Must-Read

Some books about baseball focus on statistics. Others celebrate the legends of the game. Class A is different. It is a book about what happens in the margins, where the stakes are just as high, even if the crowds are smaller. It is about the human experience of chasing something bigger than yourself, of questioning your purpose, of finding meaning in places others overlook.

Each time I return to this book, I find something new. A detail I missed. A passage that resonates differently. That is the mark of truly great writing. Lucas Mann has created a work of art that belongs on the shelf of anyone who loves the game, but also anyone who loves stories about hope, struggle, and the pursuit of something more.

Final Verdict: A Modern Baseball Classic

I have read Class A four times, and I will likely read it again. It is that good. It is a book that captures the soul of baseball, but more importantly, it captures the soul of the people who give the game its meaning.

(Since the book's publication, the Clinton LumberKings have experienced significant changes. In 2016, under first-year manager Mitch Canham, the team achieved a franchise-record 86 regular-season wins and advanced to the Midwest League Championship, ultimately falling to the Great Lakes Loons. Following Major League Baseball's reorganization of the minor leagues after the 2020 season, the LumberKings were not selected to continue in affiliated baseball. Consequently, they joined the Prospect League, a collegiate summer baseball league, in 2021. In their 2024 season, the LumberKings finished with a 34–21 record, marking their best performance since joining the Prospect League.)

Bob Uecker was more than a voice; he was a soundtrack—a running commentary to the rhythms of my childhood summers. Today, the news of his passing hit like a fastball to the ribs. Bob Uecker, "Mr. Baseball," the man who made losing sound lovable and turned the Milwaukee Brewers’ misfortunes into high art, has left the booth for the last time. It’s a silence that feels downright wrong.

For those of us who grew up with a radio dial tuned to Brewers games, Bob’s voice was a constant companion. It wasn’t just that he was funny—although he was fucking hilarious. It was that he seemed to understand us, the fans, in a way nobody else could. “Just a bit outside,” he’d quip, making light of yet another wild pitch, and you’d laugh because what else could you do? Life isn’t always a no-hitter, and Bob made sure we remembered to laugh even when the team was down.

The radio in our house was always on, Uecker’s voice drifting through the screen doors and mingling with the smell of freshly cut grass and the distant thud of a ball game at the park. He didn’t just call games; he filled the spaces between the innings with stories that felt like old friends dropping by unannounced. He’d tell tales about his own lackluster playing career with a self-deprecating wit that made him even more endearing.

“Career highlight?” he’d say, with that deadpan delivery, “I’d have to say it was the day I got my first paycheck. It was also the day I decided to retire.” His humor wasn’t just funny; it was Midwest funny—self-aware, generous, and grounded in the idea that nobody’s too big to laugh at themselves.

Bob was also the master of the long pause. He understood the rhythm of the game, the moments when it needed nothing more than the sound of the crowd and the crack of the bat. Just when you’d think he’d left the booth to grab a brat, he’d hit you with a zinger so perfect, you’d wonder if he’d been saving it for weeks.

For Wisconsin, Bob was more than a broadcaster; he was a treasure. He embodied the spirit of the state—unpretentious, good-humored, and deeply loyal. He made us feel seen, like our little corner of the baseball world mattered. And for baseball, he was a bridge between eras. He connected the glory days of Mantle and Aaron to the modern game, all while making it accessible and entertaining for everyone, from diehard fans to casual listeners.

He made baseball feel like it mattered, even when the Brewers were dead last in the standings. But more importantly, he made it feel like it didn’t matter—not in the grand scheme of things, not compared to the joy of a sunny afternoon, a cold beer, and a good laugh with friends. “People don’t come to see the Brewers win,” he once said. “They come to drink beer, eat brats, and listen to me.” He wasn’t wrong.

Beneath all the jokes and the laughs, there was a deep love for the game and for Milwaukee. He was one of us, and he never let us forget it. He’d show up at the ballpark early, chat with fans, and share a laugh with anyone lucky enough to cross his path. He made us feel like we were part of something bigger—a family of misfits united by a shared love of baseball and the joy it brings.

Bob Uecker was the voice of my childhood, but he was more than that. He was a reminder that life, like baseball, is best enjoyed with a good laugh and a little perspective. He taught us that it’s okay to swing and miss, as long as you can laugh about it afterward. And now, without his voice filling the airwaves, the world feels a little quieter, a little less funny.

So here’s to you, Bob. May the afterlife have good seats, cold beer, and plenty of bad pitches for you to laugh at. We’ll miss you, but we’ll keep the radio on, just in case you decide to drop by again—“just a bit outside.”

And maybe, somewhere out there, there’s a little kid tuning into a celestial broadcast, laughing at your stories and wondering who this magical voice is. Because if there’s one thing you taught us, it’s that great voices never truly go silent; they echo on, in memories, in laughter, and in love.

Cynicism, at its core, is a pervasive distrust in people’s motives, sincerity, or integrity. It’s the belief that behind every action lies selfishness, deceit, or self-interest. While some level of skepticism is essential to navigate life’s complexities, cynicism can easily tip into a dismissive attitude toward others, particularly in politics.

For a long time, I held the belief that most people—at least 80%—fall somewhere in the center when it comes to politics. These are the individuals who don’t subscribe to extreme views, who recognize that life is nuanced, and who understand that real solutions often require compromise. I believed that this broad center was where reasoned discourse could take place, where people could discuss, debate, and find common ground. But something changed, and that center began to feel like it was crumbling.

Politics and cynicism often seem to be inseparable. It's easy to see why—perceived corruption, dishonesty, or incompetence within political systems can erode trust and foster a deep-seated skepticism. Many people, myself included, have at some point viewed politicians as self-serving actors whose decisions are driven by personal gain rather than genuine public service. This perspective creates a general distrust, leading to a cynical outlook that dismisses the achievements or intentions of political figures before they even have a chance to prove themselves.

However, this cynicism isn’t just a byproduct of observing the flaws within political systems. It can also be a tool wielded by those very systems. Politicians or movements often exploit this cynicism to their advantage, portraying themselves as outsiders or reformers ready to "drain the swamp" or challenge the status quo. The irony is palpable when the very people who stoke distrust in traditional institutions often harbor motives as questionable as those they seek to unseat.

This is where my relationship with social media and politics began to fray. Social media platforms, in their design and function, seem to magnify and entrench cynical attitudes. They create echo chambers, where the only voices heard are those that reinforce pre-existing beliefs, including the most cynical ones. In these digital spaces, my skepticism was not just validated—it was amplified. Every scroll, every click, seemed to confirm that my negative perceptions were not just shared, but entirely justified. This digital reinforcement made it easy to sink deeper into cynicism, and it began to feel like I was being pulled in a direction I didn’t want to go.

What made this even more troubling was the realization that, as social media divided us further, it forced us to pick sides, almost as if politics were a sport. The nuances and complexities that once characterized political discourse were drowned out by the loudest voices—voices that often weren’t well-reasoned but were amplified nonetheless. In this environment, the middle ground I once believed in seemed to disappear, replaced by an "us versus them" mentality that left little room for thoughtful debate or compromise.

This is where things became dangerous. Cynicism, amplified by social media, can evolve into something darker—a dehumanization of others, particularly when political or ideological differences are involved. On social media, those who disagreed with me weren’t just wrong; they were corrupt, ignorant, or even evil. This justified harsh rhetoric, widening the already gaping divides. The dialogue I was engaging in wasn’t a conversation anymore; it was a battlefield, and every comment was a weapon.

Cynicism in social media discourse often leads to a loss of faith in the possibility of collective action or positive change. It demotivates participation in social movements, voting, or community engagement. I began to realize that the more I engaged with politics online, the more I felt drained of hope, less willing to believe in the potential for change, and increasingly disillusioned with the idea that my voice—or anyone else’s—could make a difference.

I noticed how cynicism was creeping into my interactions, not just with the political content I was consuming but with people I cared about. I started to see myself as someone who could "see through" the naivety of others, who wasn’t fooled by idealistic rhetoric or societal norms. This gave me a perverse sense of satisfaction, a feeling that I was somehow more enlightened or worldly because of my skepticism. But this self-satisfaction was hollow. It was an emotional defense mechanism, a way to protect myself from the disappointment or betrayal I feared might come from expecting too much from people, from systems, from the world.

However, over time, I began to see the cost of this cynicism. The satisfaction I once felt was replaced by a gnawing bitterness. I was disconnected from the joy, hope, or creativity that others seemed to experience, and instead of feeling more enlightened, I felt more isolated. Cynicism had become a barrier, not just to my belief in politics, but to my connection with others, with the world, and even with myself.

I used to read a lot more when I was younger, always trying to understand the way things were. I approached the world with curiosity, eager to grasp the complexities of life and politics. But with the advent of social media, that curiosity was overshadowed by the sheer volume of opinions, many of which weren’t well-reasoned. In this new landscape, anyone with an opinion had a voice, and the loudest voices—often the most cynical—got amplified. It felt as though human nature’s baser instincts had taken over, and reasoned discourse had given way to shouting matches.

That’s why I no longer engage with politics on social media. The platforms that were supposed to connect us were driving me deeper into cynicism and further away from constructive engagement. By stepping back, I’m reclaiming the space to balance my skepticism with hope and optimism—qualities essential for sustaining democratic engagement and fostering a more constructive political environment.

I still believe in the importance of questioning and holding power accountable. But I now understand that to do so effectively, I need to engage with politics in a way that doesn’t feed my cynicism but rather encourages a belief in the potential for positive change. This doesn’t mean naivety—it means being realistic without giving in to despair, being critical without being corrosive, and, most importantly, believing that my actions, and the actions of others, can still matter.

In stepping back from the cynical echo chambers of social media, I’m not disengaging from politics; I’m engaging with it on my own terms, with a renewed commitment to hope, optimism, and the belief that, despite the flaws and failings of any system, there is still a reason to believe in the possibility of something better.

I need to explain that I'm switching my content over to Substack for several reasons. Social media sites like X, Facebook, and Instagram have become so commercialized that it feels like we no longer have a presence among all the ads. The freedom we once had to be creative and express ourselves seems to have vanished, replaced by a bombardment of content that often has nothing to do with our interests. Besides that, the trolls and negativity are draining my creative energy, and I often find myself getting dragged into the mud.

I have various interests that I want to explore, including writing, photography, and baseball. These passions offer me an escape from the day-to-day grind of my work life. Even my Baseball Buddha website has become cumbersome. I was told about Substack, and it feels like a breath of fresh air. It doesn't have ads, and while it has a feed, every other post isn’t an ad. Yes, people still express their opinions, but it's a more focused and supportive environment.

On my Substack, I can write freely. I'm currently working on a story I've been thinking about for years. Every week, I post at least a paragraph, and more when inspiration strikes. This portion of my content is behind a paywall and can be found under the "Writings" tab.

The "Writing" tab doesn’t have much to do with baseball but is very personal to me and a work of FICTION. I'm nervous about sharing a lot of it, but for those who have paid for it, thank you. I have granted free access to some because I really want feedback. I post things as chapters, which may not be in the final order of the story. Writing is a process, and more refinement will come as I post the chapters. So please, provide feedback as the story develops; all of it is connected, even if it might seem confusing at times.

The remaining content is in my "Clicks" tab, where I post about my photography. I’m exploring baseball fan photography, similar to street photography but at baseball games, combining two of my passions.

Another tab I have is "Ballpark Confidential," where I research and write about things within baseball that interest me. Pete Rose, for example, has been a big part of this. For years, he's been an enigma to me, and I'm very interested in understanding him and his personality on a psychological level. He was a boyhood idol of sorts.

I also have my "Baseball Hall of Fame" series called "Cooperstown Confidential," where I explain eligibility and the process, as many people are confused about how one gets inducted. This might be boring to most, but it's fascinating to me, and I aim to help others understand it too.

Additionally, I post memories from my Baseball in America Tour from 2014, which is fun to reminisce about since it has been over ten years since that journey. Another tab is "People, Moments, and More," where I share stories of people I admire, funny stories, or updates like this one.

Thank you for joining me on this journey, and I look forward to sharing more with you on Substack.

Joining Substack is easy. Follow these simple steps to get started:

1. Visit the Substack Website: Head over to Substack.com to begin.

2. Sign Up: Click on the “Get Started” or “Sign Up” button. You can sign up with your email address or use your Google account for a quicker process.

3. Explore Substack: Once you’ve signed up, take some time to explore. You can discover various writers and topics that interest you. Use the search bar to find specific content or browse through the recommendations.

4. Subscribe to Newsletters: Find newsletters that resonate with you and subscribe. Many writers offer free content, while others may have premium subscriptions for exclusive content. You can choose what fits your interests and budget.

5. Start Your Own Newsletter: If you’re feeling inspired, you can start your own newsletter. Click on the “Create” button, and Substack will guide you through setting up your publication. It’s easy to customize and share your unique voice with the world.

Since I am utilizing the limerick on my Twitter feed, I thought I would get you started with the history of the last 100 years of baseball through it! Yes! Fucking Limericks! These limericks capture the essence of each decade in baseball history, highlighting significant events, trends, and players.

In the '20s, Babe Ruth ruled the scene,

With power and might, he was keen.

Home runs soared high,

Fans cheered to the sky,

Baseball’s first superstar, truly seen.

In the '30s, through hardship and strife,

Baseball brought joy to daily life.

Gehrig’s Iron Man streak,

Gave hope to the weak,

In a world filled with turmoil and strife.

In the '40s, with war on the rise,

Players served under patriotic skies.

But when peace was restored,

Jackie broke through the board,

Bringing change and hope to all eyes.

In the '50s, a golden age bloomed,

With Mantle and Mays, legends loomed.

Dodgers left Brooklyn's cheer,

West Coast dreams drew near,

As baseball’s bright future resumed.

In the '60s, the game grew anew,

With expansion and talents that flew.

Gibson’s pitching so tight,

And the Mets' sudden flight,

Changed the landscape with heroes in view.

In the '70s, with greenies in play,

Speed and power defined the day.

The Big Red Machine,

Reigned supreme on the scene,

As free agency started its sway.

In the '80s, dynasties shone bright,

With the Dodgers and A's taking flight.

Ripken’s streak took its toll,

On the game's heart and soul,

And the drama kept fans through the night.

In the '90s, the home run chase roared,

As McGwire and Sosa both soared.

The strike caused dismay,

But long balls saved the day,

And the fans' love for baseball restored.

In the 2000s, scandals were found,

With steroids and whispers all around.

Yet stars like Pujols played,

And Ichiro’s hits swayed,

Keeping baseball’s excitement unbound.

In the 2010s, data took hold,

With analytics changing the mold.

Astros and Red Sox,

Used tech to unlock,

New ways for the game to unfold.

In the '20s, a new era began,

With stars like Ohtani’s grand plan.

Pandemics brought pause,

Yet through all the cause,

Baseball endures as the fans’ number one fan.

X: Switching to Baseball Limericks

I've decided to change the focus of my X account. The platform has become too toxic and negative for meaningful discussions. Instead of deleting the account, I'll be using it to post baseball limericks. It's a fun, light-hearted way to keep the account active and bring a bit of goofiness to the timeline.

Instagram: Focusing on Fan Experience Photos

My Instagram account will now highlight the best photos from the fan experience at baseball games. As I continue to improve my photography skills, I'll be capturing the excitement and passion of the fans. I hope these photos will bring a fresh perspective on the game we all love.

Website: Transitioning to Substack

Over the next year, I'll be dissolving the Baseball Buddha website and moving everything to Substack. Substack will become the main platform for my content, including writing, photography, and podcasts. It will eventually have the baseballbuddha.com domain, making it easier to follow and engage.

In the summer of 1977, I played Little League baseball, a season that left me with fond, if vague, memories. I remember the names and faces of my childhood friends. Though I'm not close with any of them, I occasionally run into one of them. In the team picture, I'm in the second row, second from the left. The guy to the left of me and I cross paths every now and then; we're both friends of Bill W. When we meet, we reminisce about childhood days. The rest of my teammates are just memories. If I hear their names, I can picture them as they were in the photo.

The biggest thing about that year is the trophy I’m holding in the picture. It was my first and only trophy, and it held significant sentimental value. I kept it until I moved back to Oconomowoc from Ashland in 1986. Seeing this picture, I realize I am a two-time Little League Champion, Oconomowoc in 1977 and Ashland in 1978!

The memory that stands out from the summer involves a particular game where I was playing right field. Back then, right field was often reserved for the players who weren't considered very good, terrible really, I lived up to the expectation. I would pick dandelions, put my glove on my head, and often felt unsure of what to do when the ball came my way. Sometimes, I just waited for the second baseman to run out and get the ball from me.

That game my dad was watching, but he had a softball game and had to leave early. I started to cry because I wanted to go with him to be the bat boy. He stayed and ended up being late for his game. I got to be the bat boy, and he played catcher, I think in softball they said the same thing about catcher as they did about right fielders in Little League. That’s the only memory I recall from that summer and baseball, it was a small seed in my journey.

My childhood was marked by frequent moves and a lot of starting and stopping at different schools. In 1975, I started 3rd grade at Greenland Elementary, but then my family moved to San Jose for my dad's job, which led me to spend part of the school year at Stipe School in San Jose. After six months, we moved back to Oconomowoc, where I finished third grade at Greenland. My fourth-grade year (76-77) began at Dousman Elementary, a town 5 miles from Oconomowoc, we moved back to Oconomowoc later that school year, and I again finished at Greenland. I started fifth grade (77-78) at Greenland but moved to Ashland and completed the year at Beaser Elementary.

Even though I have vague memories I recall my childhood (Oconomowoc, San Jose, Dousman) as pretty carefree, we ran around the neighborhood, built forts, stole candy, played with snakes and would just show up at friends’ houses, when we heard our moms calling us home for dinner, we would ignore the call and keep playing, deciding a hot baloney sandwich was better late than the casserole Mom made.

On April 1, 1978 my family moved to Ashland, Wisconsin, I was 11.  I remember it vividly, it was a Saturday, the drive took 7 hours from Oconomowoc.  Ashland is located on the top of Wisconsin on the shores of Lake Superior.  I moved away from Ashland in June, 1986, it was a total of 8 years.  I lived in other places longer but Ashland has my heart.

Ashland is at my core, the people are my tribe, I understand them, understand how they live.  I have friends but few close friends, Ashland is my close friend, it welcomes me, judges me, puts me in my place but always has my back.

I fell in love with baseball in 1978, was exposed to it a few years before in Oconomowoc and it was burned into my brain in San Jose, where the kids had uniforms, jackets and matching ball caps.  My baseball experience and the town I grew up align perfectly, both are my escapes of the day to day, I simplify them, always taking me back to when the world and my dreams were large.

The thing about life, it is truly short, it goes by in an instant, you start to understand at 50, I am sure a few 80 year olds might laugh as I do at 30 year olds.  Baseball seasons come and go, players also, but the ones when I was 11 are etched in my brain, Rod Carew, Ron Cey, Pete Rose (Amos, let’s agree to disagree, he doesn’t belong in the Hall of Fame), Don Money, Larry Hisle, Reggie Jackson, I could go on.

My 1978 Topps baseball card collection is in three leather bound binders, I spent plenty of money buying the wax packs at the Corner Store that spring and summer, it is the only set I care about, it is not about how much it is worth dollar wise but memories wise.  It was the year the Dodgers lost to the Yankees in the World Series, but I started following them, I loved their uniforms.  

Baseball, if not for Eggo, that spring day in April, 1978, might be an afterthought. He doesn’t realize it, how could he, but his influence is all around me. The things that make me smile, my desire to be a professional ball player, the only thing I ever wanted to be was sparked in an instant.

The summer of 1978 random memories are of little league baseball in Ashland; Bryan Tolliver and Dave Roberts beaning everyone when they pitched for the Braves; Rollo coaching the Mets; Mr. Dormady holding practice and watching him work with Mike on Saturdays at the park. Playing fence ball, an Ashland invention, the legendary Fleck brothers and Harvey Boswell.

I recall my formative years quite a bit, the people who touched me; even for a moment. 1978 and Ashland are mere memories, it is no longer what it was, where I spent my days at the park and ball fields across the street and around the corner. I am no longer who I was, but the sights and sounds of those summer days remain.

"Why are you so angry?" My brother-in-law Jerry asked me this over 25 years ago. He said it nonchalantly after I was talking about politics or something that I thought was important at the time. It hit me hard. I didn’t think of myself as an angry person, but he stopped me cold with that one question.

Jerry's question has stuck with me ever since. He doesn't realize the impact he has had on my life. Anytime my emotions get the best of me, I remember his question. I view Jerry much differently than he views himself. He would laugh at this, but he has taught me many lessons over the years. When he asked me that question, we were driving out to Iron River to go grouse hunting. I wasn’t a hunter in the sense Jerry was; my family didn’t hunt. But Jerry always asked me to go when I was up north visiting. He taught me, let me shoot first, and explained the nuances without judgment.

Jerry is a man of quiet strength and unwavering patience. He embodies a calm demeanor that stands in stark contrast to my often intense nature. His love for the simple pleasures in life, like bird hunting, reflects his ability to find joy in the moment. Jerry is not one to seek the spotlight or crave recognition. He finds contentment in the ordinary, which is a lesson I have come to deeply appreciate.

Jerry has worked the same job for over 40 years, demonstrating a level of dedication and stability that is rare. He and my sister have raised two well-adjusted kids, who have grown into remarkable adults. This is a testament to Jerry's consistent and loving presence in their lives. His sense of humor is another defining trait—he finds humor in the mundane and often brings a smile to those around him with his sometimes crude and witty responses. Unlike many people today, Jerry is not on social media. He prefers genuine, one-on-one conversations where real connections can be made. You won’t find Jerry with his head down, looking at his phone; instead, he engages fully with the world around him. Sometimes, he says things out loud that perhaps should be kept to himself, but he always does so with a touch of humor that disarms and endears him to others.

Jerry loves to hunt and fish; these are his passions. His enthusiasm for these activities is infectious, and he is always eager to share his knowledge with others. Jerry is also a person who questions things and is open to changing his perspective when presented with new information. Although he may not view himself this way, the people in his life, upon reflection, see him as someone who pretty much does the right thing all the time.

I am a person who has always wanted to make my mark in the world, to be someone, to make a difference, to be known, to be a success—however you define it, it was important to me. I was never comfortable just being who I was; I always wanted something more. I am never satisfied. But with age comes perspective. It is not as important to me as it once was. I am not as impatient for success.

Jerry's influence has played a significant role in this shift in my perspective. His question speaks to me because it embodies the essence of who he is—calm, reflective, and content. Jerry is the opposite of who I am, and I strive to be more like him—less angry, more accepting, finding joy in the things I do, and being comfortable in my own skin. His ability to remain unruffled and his knack for seeing the good in every situation have taught me to slow down, to appreciate life as it comes, and to find peace within myself.

Jerry's life philosophy is simple yet profound. He values relationships over accomplishments, experiences over possessions, and presence over ambition. His contentment with who he is and what he has is a lesson in humility and grace. Whenever I find myself caught up in the rush to achieve or the frustration of unmet goals, I think of Jerry. His way of living reminds me that true success is not measured by accolades or status but by the ability to find happiness in the everyday moments and to be at peace with oneself. His influence continues to guide me, reminding me that sometimes, the greatest lessons come from the quietest voices and the simplest questions.