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Do you ever look at your parents and wonder who they are?
Through the years, I've realized that other than sharing a common history with my folks, I had little in common with them. We were a close family, but didn't always understand each other.
For example, they spent their young adult years in a sleepy, small-Midwestern town; I spent mine in the action-packed Valley of the Sun.
They grew up in an age where marriage was forever; I got divorced after 5 years.
They know of "crack" as the sight you try to avoid when the plumber's fixing your sink; I know of crack as America's fastest growing drug problem.
A few years ago, however, I rediscovered my parents while watching a Diamondbacks' game. The magic of Bank One Ballpark seemed to cast its spell, bringing us closer.
It was there that I learned my Mom was an ardent baseball fan and could spout off batting averages and RBIs with the best of them.
I was then reminded of the times my Dad drove my brother and me to Minneapolis to catch the Minnesota Twins ... happy memories I had somehow filed in the back of my mind.
Throughout that season, as I watched games and talked with my folks between pitches I realized that we aren't so different after all. That a shared history is plenty to build upon; that you're never too old to learn who your parents are.
Baseball has a way of bringing people together.
The fans, at least.
It has yet to bring the Major League Baseball players and owners together.
With the strike looming only a week away, and the seemingly unavoidable end to the 2002 season, I hope that the players and owners can find some of that baseball magic that I found with my parents.
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