When I was six, my father gave me a bright-red scoreboard that opened my heart to the game of baseball. After dinner on long summer nights, he would sit beside me in out small enclosed porch to hear my account of that day's Brooklyn Dodger game. Night after night be taught me the odd collection of symbols, numbers, and letters that enable a baseball lover to record every action of the game. Our score sheet had blank boxes in which we could draw our own slanted lines in the form of a diamond as we followed players around the bases. Wherever the baserunner's progress stopped, the line stopped. He instructed me to fill in the unused boxes at the end of each inning with an elaborate checkerboard design which made it absolutely clear who had been the last to bat and who would lead off the next innings. By the time I had mastered the art of scorekeeping, a lasting bond had been forged among my father, baseball, and me. Excerpted from Wait till Next Year: A Memoir by Doris Kearns Goodwin All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
