Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

I was born with a birth defect. I was born without the “sports gene.”

Not that I don’t enjoy sports, and not that I wasn’t absolutely chained to the television during the past Olympiad in London, no. But when regular boys were out playing football or shooting hoops, I was practicing my Frisbee forehand flick. For years, I was passing; I would sit with my dad and brothers, watching the 49ers play through the autumn months. I cheered with them all during the Montana-Rice years. But in my mind, I was visualizing my bicycling jockey technique, so I wouldn’t have to take my feet out of the pedal clamps at stop lights.

But in recent years, as I’ve grown older, I’ve found an area of intersection, an area where despite my Sports-Gene Deficiency, mainstream sports and I meet: Baseball. I’m not a number-crunching, score-card ticking rankings hawk. I’m just a guy who enjoys the game, appreciates its subtler aspects, enjoys its open-ended pace and its long, storied tradition. And that’s why yesterday was a very special day.

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