I went to a Class A minor league baseball game last night.

While it’s tempting to have the above be my entire post today (for a cheap laugh), it would not do justice to my love of the game. Frankly put, I’ve loved baseball much longer than I’ve enjoyed looking at cute young ballplayers. Last night was cold and clear. No clouds, just three-quarters of a moon. The temperature was about 42 degrees (my friend Stephanie checked weather.com on her phone and announced that the wind chill was 38 degrees). There were maybe a 150 or 200 hardy souls in Classic Park watching the Lake County Captains play the Dayton Dragons. In row K, section 114, you’re just behind the third base line and less than 100 feet from home plate. In a ballpark with very few bodies to absorb the sound and a cold, crisp night, the crack of wooden bat hitting horsehide ball was a sound made tangible. Monotone though it may be, that sound is music to my ears. Oh my soul for the crack of the bat, for the sight of a stark white fly ball against a black sky, for some beautiful 19-year-old kid making a graceful diving catch for the pleasure of a 150 frozen fans.