There are baseball stories.
And then there are baseball stories.
This one doesn’t start with a first pitch or a box score. It starts with a backyard in Bustleton, a cracked sidewalk in South Philly, a weedy patch of grass behind a rec center in Roxborough. It starts with a dad who just got home from the late shift, still in his work boots, flipping a ball underhand to a wide-eyed kid with an oversized glove. It starts with a grandfather yelling “Keep your elbow up!” while the ball skips under the fence.
This story has no final score. No inning limit. No clock.
It stretches across generations, from Baker Bowl to Shibe Park, from the Vet to the Bank. From grandfathers who idolized Dick Allen, to sons who worshipped Mike Schmidt, to grandsons who line up for Bryce Harper’s autograph and wear “Phillies or Bust” wristbands to school.
“I’ve seen a lot of games,” says Charlie Marino, 82, who first saw the Phillies play in 1950 and still goes to Sunday home games with his son and 14-year-old grandson. “But I’ve only really felt the game when I’m with my family. That’s when it matters. That’s when it lives.”
Maybe that’s what separates baseball from every other sport. The way it slows time. The way it passes not just between innings, but between generations. The way it makes you remember.
There’s a reason fathers and sons don’t say I love you at the ballpark. They say, “Let’s go hit some balls.”
They say, “You bring the glove?”
They say, “Remember when we saw Roy Halladay’s perfect game on TV?”
And that’s enough. Because baseball has always said what words can’t.
“I keep a picture of my dad and me at the 1993 NLCS in my wallet,” says Sam Brachidi, who now brings his 11-year-old son, Luca, to nearly every Sunday home game. “We were in the 700 level. We stayed until the last out. Dutch hit that homer and we just stood there hugging. My son doesn’t even know what Dutch Daulton meant to us, but he sees my face when we talk about it. And now we’re making our own memories. That’s what this game gives you.”
At Citizens Bank Park, you see it every night if you know where to look. You see it in the older man who explains every pitch to the boy in the next seat, pointing with the kind of reverence normally reserved for church. You see it in the grown men who tear up during the national anthem because it reminds them of sitting next to their father on a worn metal bleacher. You see it in the quiet moment between innings, when three generations lean in at once to share a soft pretzel.
In a city like Philadelphia, baseball isn’t entertainment. It’s inheritance.
“My pop was a Mummers guy,” says Gene DeCrenzo, a longtime youth coach from Fishtown. “He loved parade day and the Phillies. When my son was born, first thing I did was buy a Phils onesie. Now I take both my grandsons to games. We sit in the same seats my dad used to get through his union. It’s like he’s there with us, cracking jokes about Greg Luzinski.”
The game changes. The players change. The price of beer changes (believe me). But the feeling never does. The walk to the ballpark. The way the crowd leans in on a full count. The fist bump when a double splits the gap. The kid looking up at his father after a big win and thinking — this is the best night of my life.
That’s the gift.
Baseball doesn’t just stay with you. It follows you. Through breakups and birthdays. Through graduations and goodbyes. It reminds you where you come from and who sat beside you. It holds your hand even when those people are gone.
“I lost my dad in 2017,” says Charles Fagan, a 61-year-old retired firefighter from South Jersey. “But every time I walk into the stadium, I hear his voice. ‘Charlie, look at that shift! What are they doing?’ I laugh every time. My grandson doesn’t get it, but I do. That’s baseball, man. It keeps the people you love close.”
So if you’re lucky enough to sit in a row with your father and your son, take a moment between innings. Look at the way the lights hit the field. Watch the kid scribble in his scorebook. Listen to the old man talk about Del Ennis like he just saw him hit cleanup last week.
That moment? That’s everything.
That’s the game.
That’s the bond.
That’s Philadelphia.
That’s forever.
