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It was Friday afternoon in Wisconsin. The summer sun was hot and we had tickets to the Brewer’s game. My four younger siblings and I could hardly contain our excitement.
To burn off some steam while we waited for Dad to get home, we played a game of Pickle. We chucked the ball back and forth between the two front yard trees that acted as bases, racing to run down whoever was in the middle. We yelled, screamed, fought, cried, and sweated; it was just another typical day at the Auths.
Eventually, Dad pulled into the driveway. We dropped our gloves, ran over to him and started badgering him to get changed and get going. We wanted to see batting practice. We wanted to tailgate. We wanted, wanted, wanted…