The past is a gift, but not something to cling to

I never truly played baseball. Well, to be fair, I played t-ball at Southside in the mid to late 90s, but that was about as far as I went. Even so, I’ve always considered that era to be a golden time for city little league baseball.

There were so many great players across the city, but Southside always held my affection. I lived close. Many of my friends played there, and each week my dad would take me to watch the games.

The ballpark was alive with sights and sounds that stayed with me long after. The crack of the bat, the smell of popcorn, the roar of a crowd after a big play; it was magic. I remember playing cup ball with friends just beyond the left field fence at the north diamond, waiting for a foul ball that might earn me a piece of baseball gum, or listening closely as raffle tickets were called, hoping my dad’s number would win the 50/50 drawing.

Though I never wore the uniform, I felt as much a part of the game as those who did. The atmosphere of the park gave me the same thrill as competing myself. Visiting different diamonds across the city became a rhythm of my childhood, each park with its own quirks, its own personality. There was a sense of family and community woven into those nights that, in my opinion, is rare today.

I admit, I have a love for nostalgia. It’s easy to live in the past, replaying those golden moments. Yet, Scripture reminds us not to say, “Why were the former days better than these?” (Ecclesiastes 7:10). The past is a gift, but not something to cling to. It serves its purpose in memory, but life is meant to move forward.

Now, I watch my own son play baseball. His memories won’t be shaped at Highland Park or Southside, but at Championship Park, under bright lights that shine into the night sky. The future belongs to his generation, and I am learning to embrace it with joy.

Still, like Freddie Mercury once sang, “Radio, someone still loves you.” To the city little league diamonds of my youth, I still love you.