What makes a die hard?

I am a native of Houston, and I have been an Astros fan my entire life, but that doesn't make me a die hard. I learned to love the Astros as young boy growing up in the Northshore area of Houston. When I was 6 years old, I moved to Cincinnati, but I brought the Astros with me. I still have have a picture of me learning to ride a bike while wearing my blue Astros jersey with the rainbow colors down the sleeves. I was obsessed with Billy Doran, Mike Scott, and, for some reason, backup catcher Mark Bailey.

Every die hard baseball fan has a team that they cherish the most. The 1986 Astros is that team for me. I can still name the starting lineup and the platoon players from that team. Perhaps it's from watching the Mike Scott no hitter on a VHS tape that I got from my grandmother over and over again. I didn't defect to the Reds despite the opportunities to do so. I did go to games up there and really enjoyed Pete Rose.

In 1988, we moved to Alabama, which is Braves country. I still maintained my allegiance despite pressure from friends to be a Braves fan. I liked the Braves. I especially liked the early 1990s version of the team. One of my favorite baseball memories of all time is when I hid my Walkman under my pillow so that I could listen to game 7 of the 1992 NLCS (the Sid Bream game as it turned out), but there wasn't the element of passion that came with my Astros fandom.

In 1992, I moved back to Cincinnati. I tried to attend as many Astros games against the Reds as I could. At church camp in ninth grade, I skipped an event so that I could take advantage of the rare opportunity to listen to the Astros on the radio. That's right. We had a radio. That is considered contraband at church camp. I moved back to Houston in 1996.

A die hard isn't someone who pays no attention to other teams. A die hard is a fan who maintains his passion for his team through good times and bad. I didn't maintain my allegiance to the Astros all of those years because they were a dominant team that got tons of national coverage. I maintained that loyalty because Houston was home, and it was where most of my family was. I live in the Dallas area now after moving here to attend the University of North Texas. I currently pay attention to the Rangers and even attend games. I generally cheer them on (somethimg that will have to change some in 2013), but it is not the same.

I have a son that is currently becoming baseball aware, and he loves the Rangers. Why wouldn't he? Dallas is his home, and he is building baseball memories here. I don't care that he prefers the Rangers. I hope that he enjoys the same passion for whatever team he cheers for, because the ride is worth it.

What Baseball Means to Me

It is just a game, but the game means a lot more to me.  My love for baseball goes back to my early childhood.  I started playing so early that I don't remember the first time I played catch, swung a bat, or ran the bases.  Playing the game has been a part of my life for a long time, and it continues to be a part of my life in the form of softball.  I learned the game in my Mamaw's front yard on Joliet in the eastern half of Houston, Texas.  I still have vivid memories of taking part in games along with my Father, Uncle, and my Aunts.  I remember my black plastic bat that I learned to swing left handed even though I throw right handed.  My idol was any player for the Houston Astros.

The first five years of my life contained a lot of change, but one of the people that remained a constant for me was my Mamaw.  She would spend countless time outside with me.  She would let me take cuts off of the tee, pitch for me, and even taught me the basics of defense.  My Mamaw was a huge Astros fan and watched as many games as she possibly could.  She recorded games for me throughout the week, and when I would come to her house, we would watch them.  She already knew the outcome, so she would only show me the games that we won.  As far as I knew, the Astros never lost.  As I grew up, I would learn the true pain and agony of what it is to be a Houston sports fan.

I moved to Cincinnati in 1986 when I was six years old, but I never lost track of my Mamaw.  We still talked on the phone, and I visited when I could.  The 1986 season was a magical season for my beloved Astros.  We went to the playoffs and played the Mets in the NLCS.  We lost in heartbreaking fashion.  This was my first huge baseball disappointment.  Of course, I had to call Houston and talk it over with my Mamaw.  She told me that we would get back to the playoffs, and that we would do better next time.  She passed away two years later in 1988.  The Astros continued to be a source of comfort for me as life pressed on.

The Astros wouldn't return to the playoffs again until 1997.  They were quickly eliminated by the Atlanta Braves.  We would get back to the playoffs in 1998 as favorites to get to the World Series, only to lose to the San Diego Padres in the first round.  In 1999, we would get back to the playoffs and lose to the Braves again.  By now, Astros fans had become accustomed to playoff disappointment.  In 2001, we would get back to the playoffs again, and we would of course be knocked out by the Braves, again.  In 2004, it looked like we were going to finally break through to the World Series for the first time.  We were up 3 games to 2 in a best of seven series, but we lost the last 2 games only to fall short again.  Then there was 2005.

In 2005, the Astros finally got to the World Series.  Nineteen years after they first broke my heart, they made it all worth it.  As soon as the final out fell into the glove of Jason Lane, I picked up my phone and called my Father, and we shared in our excitement.  Our conversation turned to Mamaw.  My thoughts raced back to that front yard on Joliet.  I thought about how happy my Mamaw would have been.  Her boys had finally gotten to the World Series.

I have moved around a lot, and endured many changes in my life, but one thing that has always been consistent is baseball.  When I watch a game, it takes me back to that house with the wood paneled walls.  It takes me back to sitting in amazement of the great Nolan Ryan.  When I put on the jersey and lace up my cleats for a softball game, I go back to that front yard where I learned to play.  It lets me be a kid again.

As I sat in seat at Minute Maid Part in Houston this last April with my infant son in my lap, and my Father with me, I couldn't help but tear up.  This game is not just a game to me.  It is about family and heritage.  It runs through my veins.  I am very blessed with a wife who understands that.