Posts by Nathan Graziano
And when it comes to baseball, I’m a bit of a purist. I enjoy seeing the game when played as close as possible to its original design in the 1840s when The Knickerbocker Club of New York City played at the Elysian Fields in Hoboken, N.J.
Her doomscrolling, however, has become habitual. It is not only when we’re watching television. It is also while we’re driving in the car, or lying in bed, or getting ready for work in the mornings, or having drinks at a bar. My wife is constantly checking her phone for news that either angers or upsets her whenever there is a spare moment.
Jon and I had finished volunteering at the food bank and were driving back to the church to meet up with our prayer circle when the call came in.
After a rainy morning and an overcast afternoon, the sun came out over Delta Dental Stadium for the New Hampshire Fisher Cats’ Opening Day, bringing to mind the lyrics from John Fogerty’s “Centerfield,” the singer’s ode to the game of baseball: “We’re born again, there’s new grass in the field.”
MANCHESTER, NH – With Opening Day for the New Hampshire Fisher Cats’ 2026 season set for Friday, April 3, at Delta
We were also attending the comedy show “Smiles for 26.2 Miles” at The Strange Brew Tavern that night—I had also written a piece about the event for the Ink Link—which left Paige and I with roughly three hours to saddle up to some barstools and celebrate my birthday at the place where I should rightfully receive my mail.
It was apropos of nothing when my 22-year-old daughter recently sent a text message to inform me that not only do I listen to a steady diet of “Dad Rock” but I also dress as if it were still the 1990s.
“Smile for 26.2 Miles” is a fundraiser performance organized by local comedian Kyle Heavey and his friend Justin DeFlumeri, who is running the Boston Marathon on April 20, with all proceeds going to support the Heather Abbott Foundation, which provides customized prostheses for amputees who have lost limbs due to traumatic circumstances.
At precisely this point of every year, somewhere around the Ides of March, I launch into the same sentimental, navel-gazing screed about baseball and the symbolic significance of the game, about hope and rebirth and poetry.
After an exhaustive, snow-soaked winter, Mother Nature teased us with spring this week, and with the return of spring comes the annual resurrection of America’s game.