This is a photo of me and my parents - in Apache Junction, AZ in Spring of 1963. Dad was the manager of the Colt .45's (the direct ancestors of the Houston Astros) and Spring meant high hopes, shiny bats and clean balls at the base of Superstition Mountain. As a kid I learned about the desert; how to avoid a veritable plethora of cacti; don't climb a saguaro; rattlesnakes are not our friends. And I learned to love baseball.
As I grew older, Spring Break meant Fort Lauderdale, baby! But not because it was a spring break mecca, my dad was with the Yankees - and that's where they trained each spring. Actually, they train in Tampa, but Dad went south to scout the competition. And as a college student and all-around good daughter, I was happy to forego any plans I had to visit dad on his lonely 6-week stint. (Are you buying this yet? It's Lauderdale, for goodness sake!) I had a free place to stay and my only monetary responsibility (other than cocktails) was to meet Dad for breakfast every morning. I'm pretty sure he didn't believe my story that real Coca-Cola and dry toast was the latest Glamour Magazine diet plan.
All these fond memories add up to an adult who loves baseball. And I love the Astros and I love the Yankees. My biggest nightmare (or perhaps dream) would be a Yankee-Astro World Series. For whom would I root-root-root? Or maybe I'd just root for both. Either way it would be a great time.
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