There’s a certain magic to baseball that no other sport has ever quite managed to touch. Football thunders, basketball dazzles, soccer never stops moving—but baseball? Baseball breathes. It invites you in, lets you linger, gives you space to fall in love with it slowly, inning by inning, summer after summer. It’s the only sport where the distance between fan and player can shrink to a handful of feet—close enough to hear the chatter from the dugout, close enough for a kid to lean over a rail and walk away with an autograph that becomes a lifelong treasure.

For families like ours, baseball wasn’t just entertainment. It was an event, a pilgrimage, a moment where everyone—from the littlest kids with mustard-stained shirts to the dads who knew every batting average by heart—felt like they belonged to something bigger. Stadiums weren’t just places. They were cathedrals built out of grass, lights, and the collective heartbeat of whoever filed through those turnstiles.

My brother and I played baseball with the neighborhood kids as often as life would let us. Sometimes at the local park, at the nearest school, even in the street. We’d play with our cousins in Mexicali whenever we made the trek across the border. Hell, we even invented our own makeshift ball out of old rags wrapped tightly in electrical tape—we called it “banana ball” and played with it in the backyard, just the two of us. Sometimes we played in formal, organized games, but more often it was informal, spur-of-the-moment matches that just popped up because we had enough bodies to make it happen. Baseball just made everything better.

And for me, it was all made much more special with those trips to Jack Murphy Stadium.

Long before we saw the stadium itself, the trip captured us. It started with the city announcing employee tickets—an envelope that meant two things:

1. We were going to San Diego; and
   
2. The world suddenly felt brighter for the rest of the week.
   

My dad put that envelope on the fridge like it was a championship trophy. Every time someone grabbed milk, they checked the tickets again, just to make sure they were still there.

The morning of the game felt like Christmas in July. Mom packed homemade snacks—usually burritos with beans, guisado, or even huevos con weenie—in foil-wrapped bundles. Other treats included peanuts, sliced fruit, and sandwiches that always tasted better in the car. We’d pile into the car, windows cracked open, everyone wearing their best attempt at “stadium clothes,” which mostly meant whatever shirt had survived the laundry that week.

The ride west was its own adventure. The desert gave way to the hills, the air shifted from dry to coastal, and with every mile the excitement grew. You could tell exactly when we hit the edge of San Diego because suddenly the car got quiet—everyone scanning the horizon for the first glimpse of the Murph.

And then, there it was.
Massive. Proud. Beautiful.
A concrete dream for any kid who loved baseball.

We were Dodger fans through and through, and although Jack Murphy Stadium was home to the San Diego Padres, it felt extraordinary in a way all its own. Walking through the tunnels is a memory I can feel in my bones even today—the echo of footsteps, the hum of the crowd building, the faint scent of beer, pretzels, and freshly cut grass drifting in from somewhere ahead. Then comes that moment—the tunnel opens, and the entire field explodes into view. That green. That impossible, perfect green. It felt as if someone had opened the door to another world.

Sometimes, if the city trip was special enough, we got to meet the players before the game. This game was Dodgers vs. Padres. I met many of my childhood idols: Pedro Guerrero, Steve Garvey, Steve Sax, even manager Tommy Lasorda. They’d sign our programs, ball caps, and gloves with quick flicks of their wrists, barely looking up but somehow making us feel like we mattered. Those signatures turned paper into treasure. If we were lucky, we walked away with a signed ball.

But the crown jewel—the thing that stamped those memories into me forever—was catching sight of Fernando Valenzuela down in the visitors’ bullpen. Fernando wasn’t just a pitcher back then—he was a force. A legend. A quiet giant whose presence could send every kid scrambling down the stairs for a closer look.

We’d hover near the rail, trying not to get yelled at by security, watching him warm up. The way he moved—calm, focused, almost gentle—made it feel like we were witnessing something sacred. Sometimes he’d glance over, maybe nod. And if he smiled? Forget it. You could live off that moment for years.

I remember just standing there, staring down while he worked. And then, out of nowhere, he stopped, wiped sweat from his forehead, and looked right at me. Without skipping a beat, he waved his hat. In my excitement, I waved back—and dropped my ball into the bullpen. Fernando just smiled and tossed me the ball he had in his glove—the one he was throwing with.

I must admit, I don’t recall much about that game—or any of the other games we went to on those trips. For me, it was never about the score or the plays. It was about the experience—the sights, the smells, the people, the way the stadium seemed to hum with life around us. Those moments—the walk through the tunnels, the green field exploding into view, the laughter, the cheers, the simple act of sitting together as a family—stuck with me far longer than any highlight reel ever could.

The ride back was quieter, the excitement of the day settling into a comfortable, glowing hum. The snacks sat half-eaten in their foil wrappers, crumbs clinging stubbornly to seats and laps. The radio played softly, a jumble of traffic reports, music, and post-game chatter, but we barely noticed. Our minds were still in the stadium, still on that perfect green, still with the smell of cut grass and roasted peanuts lingering in our noses.

Every so often, my brother or I would glance out the window at the fading skyline of San Diego and smile, silently replaying the moments we’d carry with us forever: the echoes of footsteps in the tunnels, the quick flicks of players’ pens on our programs, Fernando’s nod, the toss of the ball from his glove into mine.

By the time we crossed back into the desert, the world felt a little bigger, a little brighter, and somehow more magical. Baseball hadn’t just been a game that day. It had been an experience, a memory stitched into the fabric of our childhood, one we’d return to over and over, long after the car cooled and the city lights faded behind us.

Those days at Jack Murphy weren’t just about baseball.
They were about wonder.
About family.
About the feeling that the game loved us back.

And honestly?
No other sport comes close.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com —stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.