A tall, thin old man waving a scorecard from the corner of his dugout. That's baseball.
San Anita is a beautiful track. It's not too far from my house in L.A., and it's a beautiful place to go and watch the horses run.
I am a season ticket holder to Dodger games. I go to every Dodger game I can go to. Every single one.
A race track is a place where windows clean people.
I thought I had to show all my stuff and I almost tore the boards of the grandstand with my fastball.
The behavior of the crowd at Churchill Downs is like 100,000 vicious Hyenas going berserk all at once in a space about the size of a 777 jet or the White House lawn.
A dark horse, which had never been thought of, rushed past the grandstand in sweeping triumph.
What you lose as you age is witnesses, the ones that watched from early on and cared, like your own little grandstand.
A young ballplayer looks on his first spring training trip as a stage struck young woman regards the theater.
There's something magical about a home run. It almost violates the space of the stadium. It's a game of the imagination in some ways. Baseball.
