Last Friday night, I experienced my first World Series game—a dream I’ve held onto since I was a kid, watching at home with my dad, captivated by the energy of the crowd on screen, imagining what it would feel like to be one of the lucky few witnessing history from the stands. As a boy, I pined for it, thinking maybe one day it would be me, sitting out there in a sea of fans, as part of something so grand and electric it almost seemed impossible.
As years went by, baseball slipped from my life, as things do. My teenage years and twenties were filled with other pursuits: girls, rock and roll. Baseball was something I cherished from a distance but wasn’t fully a part of anymore. But life has a funny way of bringing us back to things. As I grew older, started a family of my own, baseball began to creep back into view, pulling up memories and places I hadn’t revisited in years. And when I lost my dad in 2020, just months before Pop Fly came to life, it became even more than a game. I realized that baseball was like a temple—a space where my dad and I, two very different people, had come together, a place where the gaps between us didn’t seem so wide. It was the language we shared, no words needed, a bond that felt timeless.
Last night, sitting in the stands with my son as our home team took the field, I felt the magic of the game return, that thrill I had as a boy. And then, as we watched history unfold in front of us, I thought of my dad. Getting tickets to a World Series game, and on his birthday, no less, felt like something out of a story. If I could rewrite it, he’d be right there with us, three generations side by side, watching this moment that will be talked about for years. It’s one of those things you dream about but never really expect to happen—and yet, there we were, swept up in this perfect night.
This was no ordinary game. It was a piece of history, the kind of event I hope will be told and retold for decades to come. And each time someone brings it up, I’ll get to remember: I was there, with my son. But more importantly, my son will remember he was there—with his dad. Maybe one day, his own kids will hear the story and know that he sat in Section 6TD, Row J, Seats 3 & 4, hearts full of love, awe, and wonder, as we watched the Fall Classic unfold before our eyes.
I’m reminded of a baseball itself, how each seam is held together by one continuous thread, a thread that binds every pitch, every memory, every generation. Last night, I felt that same thread winding through me, connecting my dad, my son, and me, each of us a part of this timeless, beautiful thing.
Leaving the stadium, I knew that no matter how many games we might see in the future, this would always be our first World Series together—a memory stitched together with all those that came before it, and all those that are yet to come.