It has been said, rightly so, that every story has a beginning.

Hollywood loves creating origin story movies of established characters as a way for the viewer to see how the protagonist on screen rose to become who they would be in later films.

Off of the big screen, one need only look at literature to see some opening lines that have definitely stood the test of time.  From Charles Dickens declaring in “A Tale of Two Cities” that “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” to Herman Melville inviting the readers of “Moby Dick” to “Call me Ishmael,” history is full of great opening lines and beginnings of stories.

These classic opening lines have grabbed the reader’s attention hook line, and in Moby Dick’s case very large sinker for generations.

While beginnings are important, one cannot, and should not stop there.  Were someone to stop at the beginning line of “A Tale of Two Cities,” they would know nothing more than that times were both good and bad.

The same can be true of “Moby Dick” where the hunt for the white whale consumes Captain Ahab and his crew becoming far more than just knowing to call a guy Ishmael.

So, it is with all of us. While we are not classic literature or action heroes on the silver screen. We all have origin stories and events that shaped who we are and what pursuits we follow.

Don’t worry, this is not a back in the day when little Ryan was born kind of story. Although, it is safe to say if we weren’t all born, none of us would be here.

No, this is a tale of when my love of baseball took root. And, much like something straight out of Dickens, the tale of my first baseball game experience was both the best of times and the worst of times.

As I have mentioned previously, I grew up as a Baltimore Orioles fan who bled Orange and Black pretty much from the time I can remember.

I followed football as well, but baseball was always the sport that drew me in just a little bit more.  As such, I tried to catch all the Oriole games I could on the radio and television.  I could recite lineups and stats that would make even the most avid statistician take notice.

So, you can imagine my excitement when I learned that I was going to go to Memorial Stadium to see the Orioles play in person in September 1983.

Aside from the thrill of going to the game, 1983 was a very pivotal year for the Orioles. It was the first year under new manager Joe Altobelli following retirement number one of Earl Weaver, and spoiler alert, the Orioles went on to win the World Series in 1983 over the Philadelphia Phillies.

Of course, I am getting ahead of myself since no one knew for sure in September 1983 what October would hold. Needless to say, there was a buzz throughout Birdland on the anticipation of what could be.

Speaking of anticipation, like most young boys gong to their first baseball game, I had high hopes and higher expectations that I was going to get all kinds of player autographs before the game, and even catch a home run ball hit by Cal Ripken, Jr. during the game. I truly had great expectations for my first trip to the ballpark.

I was joined in my traveling party to the Ballpark by my mom, a family friend and his nephew. The sky was the limit, and I was ready to make the most of the ballpark experience. We all loaded into the car and headed up to Baltimore which was about a 30-minute drive from where we lived.

Throughout the drive, we excitedly talked about who we would see first and which inning we wanted to catch the home run ball in, since it would be greedy to want to catch all of the home run balls that were hit our way..

We arrived in Baltimore in plenty of time before the game having pledged to arrive early and see the sights to avoid the traffic.  After walking around the Inner Harbor area, it was time to head to the stadium.

It was at this moment that the realization hit that the tickets that would gain us entrance into the hallowed walls of Memorial Stadium were not with us in Baltimore, but were in fact back in Gaithersburg, which was 30 minutes away in the best of times, and even further away in the worst of times of rush hour traffic.

Looking back now with 29 years or so of hindsight, I want to say that I handled the news of the ticket situation with dignity and grace and the cool assurance that comes from knowing that things like this happen and that the world goes on but the key is to keep calm.

The reality of course is that 8-year-old me did not take the news well at all. And who can blame young me?

I was at the cusp of seeing my heroes, of eating hot dogs until I was blue in the face, and of course catching that pivotal home run while getting all of those autographs.  Now, all of that was in jeopardy. As a result, I was not pleased and I was far from calm.

In the end, after driving back to  retrieve the tickets, we made it to the game around the fifth inning, found our seats and watched the Orioles play the Milwaukee Brewers who had not yet moved to the National League at this time.

I did not catch a home run ball hit by Cal Ripken, Jr. or any other player for that matter. I also did not get any autographs. However, I did eat a hot dog and I most definitely discovered that baseball is so much better in person and hot dogs taste so much better in the ballpark.

There is a buzz around ballparks that really can’t be duplicated even with the most high definition of televisions with Dolby surround sound and the freshest of popcorn smells being pumped into the media room.  To truly experience baseball, one must experience it in person.

Since moving to Texas, I have adopted the Astros into my stable of teams that I follow. I try to attend as many games as I can each year in Minute Maid Park, in addition to traveling the country and going to ballparks both small and large.

I have also caught my share of balls despite striking out in my first attempt in 1983. No matter the ballpark size, I still get the same feeling walking in it as I did as that 8-year-old boy experiencing it for the first time.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not a huge fan of crowds. So, the push and shove on the escalators and concourses can get tiring. But once I am in my seat, the magic begins all over again and it is like I am seeing it all for the first time through the eyes of younger me.

For those few hours in the stadium, I don’t worry about the stress of life, or the outside world. It is just the game and me; well and thousands of my closest friends.

Although that September night in 1983 did not go completely to plan, it was indeed the best of times and the worst of times and introduced me to the white whale that I have chased across state lines ever since.

It also taught me to always check and double check that I have the tickets before leaving for the ballpark.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to catch up on some Dickens.

 Copyright 2013 R. Anderson