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Back at Camden Yards, Pangs of Nostalgia and Thankfulness
* This morning I took a ride to Camden Yards. It was surreal—like going back in time to the commute I did for many years from 1992 through 1998 when I was a full-time employee of the ballclub. (Prior to that, beginning in 1985, I commuted to old Memorial Stadium). I had to pick up something from our friend Mark at the Orioles offices for my son’s birthday. On my drive in, as I am often capable of doing, I became nostalgic remembering old times. I also got to thinking about how that job of working for the Orioles completely transformed my life. And I don’t write that lightly. It…
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A Royal Lesson: Typing Class Came in Handy
*** Just for a minute, I’m going to take you back with me to typing class in 8th grade at Severn River Middle School. We sat in rows, typewriters in front of us. We did the drills. “A, A, A…S, S, S…D, D, D…” We typed this sentence over and over again: “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.” The whole room was filled with sound…the reverberations of clicking keys, the pounding of returning and advancing the page, the echoes of the teacher calling out what we should type. It was chaotic. It was fun. It was hands-on learning—just you smacking the keys of the typewriter. What I…
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Missing: Mourning the Loss of a 1993 Baltimore Orioles All-Star Ring
Every once in a while I get this crazy notion to ransack boxes in my basement in search of a 1993 Orioles All-Star ring the club gave me during the time I worked there many moons ago. It was incredibly special to me; it represented years of working for an organization I loved. Back then, I was single, and moved five times in five years to a new apartment or townhouse. At some point during the transitions, I lost it. Its vanishing act has haunted me ever since because I can’t remember when I last wore it or saw it. In fact, the irony is that I used to wear…
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Nostalgia
Have you ever experienced one of those freaky moments where you ransack the bins you have in storage, the ones that house collections from your previous life, with previous friends and lovers, looking to see what you considered worthy of saving? There’s the high school box, the college box, the “when I was a small child” box, the wedding box, the “I had my first kid box,” all jammed into a room that houses items you know desperately need to be dissected, tossed, or burned. (Incidentally, the poor second child and any who come after that are lucky if they even get a box). Nevertheless, the room smells of nostalgia–the…
