How I Fell in Love With Baseball at Middle Age

I grew up hating the sport, but in my 50s, I finally understand what my dad was trying to teach me

Eric Spitznagel,

AARP

Comments

Published March 26, 2025

illustration of father and son at a baseball game

The author finds that baseball's timeless rhythms provide a deep connection to his son in the present — and to his father in the past.

Ryan Johnson

Is there anything more magical than opening day of Major League Baseball? The new season kicks off for most teams on March 27. On April 4, I'll be in the stands at Wrigley Field for the Chicago Cubs home opener just like I am every year, drinking in the sights, sounds and smells of baseball — the cheering crowds and the freshly cut grass; the organ music and the vendors hawking peanuts and cold beer. And, of course, the surly, impatient teen who just wants to go home already.

“Can we go now?” Charlie, my 13-year-old son, complained at last year’s opening day. “We’ve literally been here forever!”

Eric Spitznagel brings his son, Charlie, to Chicago's Wrigley Field in 2014. Charlie was 3 at the time, and it was the young boy's first visit to the historic ballpark.

Courtesy Eric Spitznagel

“It’s only the top of the second inning,” I reminded him.

“Only the second?” He groaned, collapsing into his seat with despair like somebody who’d just received a bad biopsy result. “Oh my God, there’s like one million more innings left! I’m going to die here, aren’t I?”

I feel for the kid. Growing up in the ’70s and ’80s, I wasn’t a fan of baseball either. But every spring my dad would drag me and my brother to Wrigley Field for opening day to watch his beloved Cubs (invariably) lose. It was a yearly ritual that always felt like an obligation more than a fun outing. I was never a sports-loving kid, and baseball in particular seemed like the most boring spectator sport ever invented. If it weren’t for the hot dogs and soda, it would’ve been pure torture.

But something peculiar happened as I reached middle age. Baseball evolved from a chore I pretended to tolerate just to make my dad happy into one of my favorite summer pastimes. I was not a teenage baseball fan, nor was I a baseball fan at 20 or even 30. But in my 50s, baseball has become my happy place.

Baseball brought me closer to my father

I’m sure at least some of it is nostalgia. My dad died a few decades ago — way too young at age 60, of a massive heart attack — and baseball was my main tether to him. When a parent dies, the big fear (at least for me) is that they’ll fade away. But when I go to a ballgame — on opening day in particular —I can almost feel my dad’s presence.

I don’t remember much about what happened on the field during those childhood visits to Wrigley with my dad, but I remember everything about him, and how much happier he seemed, more relaxed and peaceful, than he was during a typical work week. My dad wasn’t good with stress, but during a baseball game, something changed in him. Maybe it was the sun on his face, or nursing a cold beer in the afternoon, or the slow, predictable rhythms of the game.

Most Popular

It never mattered if the Cubs won. He would always smile, ruffle my hair and tell me, “We’ll get ’em next time.”

There’s been a lot of hand-wringing in recent years that baseball is losing younger fans. Sure, more older adults love baseball than younger generations. According to a 2024 Statista Consumer Insights study, 64 percent of sports fans between the ages of 55 and 64 follow baseball, compared to just 43 percent of those between 25 and 34, and 34 percent under age 24. Unlike other sports, like football and basketball, the vast majority of fans at any given baseball stadium are probably due for a colonoscopy.

But I don’t see that as a negative. Older adults also enjoy bird-watching, afternoon naps and listening to physical media versus an app, and those things are all awesome.

My love of the game rallied from a big deficit

It took me a while to come around. As with aging, I didn’t fall in love with baseball overnight. It happened gradually, in inches … or innings.

After leaving home, I’d join guy friends for the occasional ballgame, though we did more talking than watching. When my friends and I got married, going to a game became our “guys’ night out.” When my dad died, going to see the Cubs play was my way of grieving and then healing. Then I became a dad and started bringing Charlie to games with me. I kept bringing him even when he was old enough to protest that he didn’t like baseball. “Oh, come on, it’ll be fun,” I told him, realizing even as I said it, Oh my God, I’m turning into my dad.

Eric Spitznagel and his son, Charlie, at Wrigley Field in 2016.

Courtesy Eric Spitznagel

“Can I just go sit in the car?” Charlie asked during our last father-son date at Wrigley Field.

“You want another hot dog?” I asked. As with my dad, I wasn’t above bribery.

“No, my stomach hurts,” Charlie growled, sinking into his seat. “Why do you even like this game? It’s so booo-ring.”

He’s not wrong. Baseball is boring. And to be honest, I still don’t entirely understand most of it. But the game has never been the entire point, any more than a sermon is the entire point of church. It’s the whole package — the majestic architecture of the chapel/stadium, being part of a congregation, the singing (“Take Me Out to the Ball Game” during the seventh-inning stretch is basically “Amazing Grace” with a beer buzz), the chance to be quiet with your own thoughts during lulls in the action. And both church and baseball have organs, which can’t be a coincidence.

Bringing it all home

I’m a big believer that sometimes you find things when you need them. I didn’t need baseball when I was younger. But as I got older, baseball was an escape. It was a few hours during my day when I didn’t have to check my phone, didn’t have to worry about bills or doctor appointments or how the hell I was paying for my kid’s college. It’s the closest I’ve come to meditation.

There was a 2019 study from Japan that looked at the effects of watching baseball among older adults, and it found a “significant reduction in depressive symptoms” among those who regularly attend games. This rings very true for me. My father was not a happy person. He grappled with depression and anxiety. But when I remember his happiest moments, they were always at a baseball game.

Depression is always on the horizon for me — it’s baked into my DNA — but I feel that same sense of relief when I’m at a ballgame. I’m just happy to be there, where nothing happening in the outside world matters, at least for a few hours.

I’m not sure if Charlie will have my same epiphany when he reaches middle age and needs an escape. Maybe he’ll realize that these games were always about more than home runs and stolen bases. Maybe he’ll think of me, and how his dad’s shoulders relaxed the moment he entered the stadium.

“It’s so stupid,” Charlie whined when I told him I’d bought tickets for this year’s opening day. “They’re just going to lose like they always lose. Why do we even bother?”

I smiled and ruffled his hair, just like my dad did to me at his age. “Maybe. But we’ll get ’em next time.”

%{postComment}%