Baseball is in my blood. Like the light hair and eyes I inherited from my father, and the hot Italian temper I got from my mother, through my veins a love of baseball runs. Until recently, where my passion for the sport came from I was not sure. Sometime, I thought it began long ago, on summer trips to Fenway Park, when my family would drive in our oversized Chevy to Boston, park in a garage near Government Center, and take the T out to the ballpark. As I grew older and more accustomed to our routine, my father’s neatly arranged exact subway fare used to annoy me. In his pocket, I knew, he carried small bills to pay for hot dogs and beer and a souvenir program. In his wallet, he had the exact amount needed to retrieve his car at day’s end.
