Somewhere in the late 1970s we were vacationing with dear friends of my parents, the Gs, and Mr. G introduced me to Strat-o-matic baseball. I remember two things about that vacation: opting to hit and run in the ninth (basic version) and rolling a two, which meant a double, a winning run, and a feeling that someday I’d manage in the major leagues. I also remember an afternoon of listening to the Red Sox in the cottage and watching Mr. G light up when Dwight Evans hit a home run. Mr. G had a theory that Dwight Evans killed the ball in day games, a theory I should confirm on baseball reference someday.

Anyway, I learned the game and then tormented my parents to buy me more sets. I think I played with anyone who would play with me — friends, cousins, my brother — and when I couldn’t find anyone, I’d play on my own. I learned names that are still with me — Wee Willie Keeler, Cap Anson, Nap Lajoie — and whatever mathematical quickness I possess comes from endless hours of this game.

Now I have a son and we play an endless stream of games (see pic below). It’s led him into the same sort of reading and borderline obsession I used to have; I catch him reading old copies of Baseball Prospectus yearbooks (I used to read these books) and saying things to his sister like “you don’t know who Rich Gedman is and that he hit 18 homeruns in 1985.” Yes… he said that.

I owe you much more, Mr. G. Someday I’ll write about the letter you sent me after we went to the Bucky Dent game as well as what a handshake meant on a spring day in 1988, but for today, thank you for Strat-o-matic baseball, for talking baseball with me, and for being a role model for the kind of thoughtful intensity I try and bring to the rest of my life.

Photo: Series from the past few months:

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Coda — I love that Buddy Ryan’s kids played Strat-o-matic too.