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Forget the revolution, there's a home game

I grew up in the 1950s in a sports-deprived area of southeast Georgia. Except for a not-so-close and generally unnoticed Georgia Florida league baseball farm team, there was no major league baseball, football or basketball. Sports meant cow pasture baseball, share the ball, bat and glove and not much of a distraction.

The 1960s came with some participation in the voting rights and integration struggles, along with the new arrival of professional baseball, an interesting but not an embedded passion. College was studying, monitoring the availability of booze, participating in Students for a Democratic Society discussions, protesting the Vietnam War, getting into graduate school (I was good at the school business), dismantling and discarding my hand gun in the one-two assassinations of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy and working in Gene McCarthy's successful Kentucky presidential nomination caucus campaign.

In 1969, I moved to Baltimore, my first summer in a big time city with big time politics and big time sports. I continued my small time participation in the New Democrat Coalition and the antiwar protests and since the basement apartments shared with rats around Johns Hopkins University were inexpensive, there I rented and got to be friendly with "radicals" in the university's soon-to-be-shuttered School of Education.

A caldron of political revolt? By the end of the summer, I accepted that baseball trumped the "revolution" with all my new otherwise activist, urbanized friends. The revolution wasn't going to start today. There was a home game.

David Kinne, Baltimore

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