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The author finds that baseball's timeless rhythms provide a deep connection to his son in the present — and to his father in the past. Ryan Johnson Facebook Twitter LinkedIn

Is there anything more magical than opening day of Major League Baseball? The new season kicks off for most teams on March 27. On April 4, I'll be in the stands at Wrigley Field for the

Chicago Cubs home opener just like I am every year, drinking in the sights, sounds and smells of baseball — the cheering crowds and the freshly cut grass; the organ music and the vendors

hawking peanuts and cold beer. And, of course, the surly, impatient teen who just wants to go home already.

“Can we go now?” Charlie, my 13-year-old son, complained at last year’s opening day. “We’ve literally been here forever!”

Courtesy Eric Spitznagel

“It’s only the top of the second inning,” I reminded him.

“Only the second?” He groaned, collapsing into his seat with despair like somebody who’d just received a bad biopsy result. “Oh my God, there’s like one million more innings left! I’m going

to die here, aren’t I?”

I feel for the kid. Growing up in the ’70s and ’80s, I wasn’t a fan of baseball either. But every spring my dad would drag me and my brother to Wrigley Field for opening day to watch his

beloved Cubs (invariably) lose. It was a yearly ritual that always felt like an obligation more than a fun outing. I was never a sports-loving kid, and baseball in particular seemed like the

most boring spectator sport ever invented. If it weren’t for the hot dogs and soda, it would’ve been pure torture.

But something peculiar happened as I reached middle age. Baseball evolved from a chore I pretended to tolerate just to make my dad happy into one of my favorite summer pastimes. I was not a

teenage baseball fan, nor was I a baseball fan at 20 or even 30. But in my 50s, baseball has become my happy place.

I’m sure at least some of it is nostalgia. My dad died a few decades ago — way too young at age 60, of a massive heart attack — and baseball was my main tether to him. When a parent dies,

the big fear (at least for me) is that they’ll fade away. But when I go to a ballgame — on opening day in particular —I can almost feel my dad’s presence. 

I don’t remember much about what happened on the field during those childhood visits to Wrigley with my dad, but I remember everything about him, and how much happier he seemed, more relaxed

and peaceful, than he was during a typical work week. My dad wasn’t good with stress, but during a baseball game, something changed in him. Maybe it was the sun on his face, or nursing a

cold beer in the afternoon, or the slow, predictable rhythms of the game.