Jeremography, Part I

Editor's Note: This is the first part in a series aimed at shedding some light on AYT's newest blogger, Jeremy.

Baseball arrived in South Florida at the perfect time in my life, when my interest in the sport was peaking and my attention had yet to turn toward those adolescent clichés: girls and cars.

The Florida Marlins’ 1993 inaugural season was a month old before my family finally made the 45-minute trip from our bland suburb to Joe Robbie Stadium, which was bigger and more garish than I had imagined.

Through his job at Publix, my dad had secured complimentary skybox seats. I had never known such luxury. Free hot dogs and Sprites? Big, cushy seats? Air-conditioning at a baseball stadium? Tell me I’m dreaming!

The game wasn’t bad either. We exploded into cheering as Jeff Conine, whose workmanlike consistency would earn him the nickname “Mr. Marlin,” bashed a searing line drive over the left-field wall for a grand slam.

I wonder how I would have felt if I had known that amid the stadium’s full-throated din was the voice of my future wife, who was sitting a lazy fly ball away from my too-young-to-know-better self.