Clean Clothes, Road Map, Lipitor: Ready For The Annual Baseball Trip!

Baseball is runs, hits, errors.

It's E.R.A.'s, B.A.'s and S.B.'s.

In my house, it's also Erie, Pennsylvania, fried bologna sandwiches and Niagara Falls.

I devote a large portion of my life and income to America's past time--I worship Major League Baseball, own a Brewers 20 game season ticket package, possess all manner of jerseys/hats/memorabilia, and spend HOURS managing a fantasy team that brings me much aggravation and zero satisfaction.

This is the time of the year when those of us who love the game are to make our predictions, pick World Seiries winners and bloviate about what the home team's done to make itself a contender/blow it's chances before the first pitch.

The seasons blend together, but one part always stands out: the annual baseball road trip.

My son and I have yet to draw out this year's plan, but we will soon match schedules with maps and come up with an itinerary that'll take us to points unknown, seeing places that aren't traditional tourist spots, eating food no nutritionist would recommend, and having the time of our lives.

A hot dog tastes just as good on a cool, summer night in Batavia, New York as it does at Miller Park, and the story about how we got there is the relish that gives it an irreplaceable flavor. I'll never forget a sunset in Lexington, Kentucky--not because of the way a certain double play got turned as day was becoming night, but rather for the way my son sat in silhouette against the sky, scorebook in hand, as I got us a fresh round of grub.

The people we've seen--Charleston, West Virginia's "Toast Man" who plugs his Sunbeam in amongst the box seats and cooks up loaves of Wonder Bread, to be flung to fans each time the hometown team's pitcher strikes out an opposing batter (amid cries of, "You Are Toast!").

The Buffalo, New York beertender who makes his rounds ala Dan Akroyd, talking as if there's absolutely NOTHING unusual about wearing a Conehead while slingin' suds.

The food? Everything from Louisville, Kentucky's famous "Brown Hotel Sandwich"...

...to the infamous Primanti sandwich of Pittsburgh which mates meat, fries and cole slaw between two pieces of bread--it's to die for. Then, there's the night in Covington, Kentucky when Dad decided that THIS was the evening my son needed to experience the splendor that is White Castle--he and are trotting with bag of burgers in hand in the dark of night so we could get back to the hotel in time to watch the remake of "Dawn of the Dead."

Nashville is Jack's Barbecue--a national landmark with a genuine ambiance, intoxicating aroma, and a sauce that lingers for hours after the last bone hits the paper plate.

We've done our share of landmarks: the arch of St. Louis, the Falls of Niagara and a few life-altering visits to Cleveland's Rock and Roll Hall of Fame during which I saw my boy go from a kid who liked a few songs on the radio to an affectionado of Hendrix, Marvin Gaye, the Kinks and others. Getting your kid to LIVE history is far better than trying to inflict it on them at home with a dry book or documentary.

Other wonders we've witnessed include the world's largest baseball bat outside the Louisville Slugger plant, and the globe's largest heads, which almost invariably plant themselves in the seat in front of me, no matter what the evening or where the ballpark.

Or, the Wally World moment we shared in Cincinnati, when he and I hit what was to be one of our ultimate destinations: a world class suburban amusement park where we'd kill the day while waiting for that night's Reds' game...only to find out that, on the last full week of August, Ohio kids GO BACK TO SCHOOL AND THE G-----N PARK WAS CLOSED!

I'll never try convincing anyone of baseball's virtues--I'm not an apostle of the game, only someone who loves and defends it at every turn. I believe you either "get" baseball, or don't. But there's nothing to "get" about travel, laughter, good food, time shared and stories that'll be told, retold and no doubt embellished as I edge closer to the nursing home and my son gets a family of his own...one that'll hopefully develop traditions onto itself, some of which I hope contain at least a smidgen of horsehide.