I was basking in the elixir of fatherhood yesterday. Unlike lyrics from “The Cat’s In the Cradle“, Ryan makes time for me which I find uncomparable. We exchanged stories about his new offspring, chased pars with another twosome on the links and then topped the evening off with a Phillies game. I have a penchant to see a game in every national stadium. This is not a bucket list or death wish item. I’m in no hurry. Just like playing golf in each of the contiguous forty eight, my quest to take in all the parks stems from watching Ray Kinsella play catch with his deceased father in Field of Dreams. We took in all the hoopla and sights, feasted on oil ladened fries and cheesesteaks, watched Harry Kallas posthumously on the big screen, and just enjoyed a men’s night out. Personnally, I felt like I was in a commercial from some Madison Avenue marketing firm discussing the merits of familial bonding. Our seats were four rows behind the dugout, the hometeam won, the drawing card hit a home run, the liberty bell rang out, and big bird danced in front of us. The only downside I felt in the entire was my own personal aversion to the style in which baseball players wear their pants today. I’m still old school. I like a lot of socks showing and still yearn for the stirrups. It dates back to the Freudian visions of a young teen mesmerized by heroes of the diamond, emblazoned on my mind’s eye, which still carries some weight in my personal bias today. Enough of my bantering, the show tells the story. Enjoy the pix below.