I'm writing this on Thursday morning, but I'm thinking about Thursday evening.  With my son, Matt, I'm going over to Coolray Field for the home opener of the Gwinnett Braves (whose record, by the way, is 5-2, a stark contrast to our other metro professionals).  I even splurged this year and bought a ticket package for the season.

For those of you who have lived in these parts for a while, maybe the GBraves aren't that big of a deal, but I'm excited.  I enjoy the game; I enjoy the feel and sounds of a ballpark; I enjoy watching with someone I enjoy being with; I enjoy the food.

I'm an American, by golly, and I love baseball.

And there's something about minor league ball that is especially fascinating or intriguing; I think it's the human drama of it all.  Minor league baseball isn't just about what IS; it's also about what MIGHT be.  If not a field of dreams, a minor league park is certainly a field of upwardly mobile aspirations.  Everyone there is thinking about the next step up.  And with a Triple-A team like the GBraves, they're SO close to "the Show," the top of the pyramid, the major leagues.

The difference between Triple-A and the majors is so fine, so small.  The players at Coolray Field have gone from tee-ball through high school or college, and every step of the way they were one of the best players on the team, if not THE best.  Now, they are so close but, for the lack of one step in speed or a breaking ball or the ability to hit said breaking ball or maybe just because of the position they play and the needs of the major-league teams, they might never ascend that last step.

If that happens, will they consider themselves failures?  It's all a matter of perspective, isn't it?  What an amazing accomplishment it is to play professional baseball at any level, but with every step those players take, the next step becomes a possibility, and so the target moves.  Sometimes I want to go out on the field and say, "Enjoy this moment, guys.  All of us in the stands wish we could do what you do.  Treasure every game, every at-bat, every smell and sound, every dugout prank, every conversation."

I'm guessing they've heard that spiel already.  You and I have heard it, too, but, still, most of us spend an awful lot of time thinking about what's next or what might be.  Maybe that's one reason I love minor-league baseball; it reminds me of what I ought to know already.  Every step in life is a gift, every moment a treasure.

I hope I'll remember that tonight when I am allowed to sit in a ballpark with my son and a few thousand other folks and watch a game beautifully played.  Thank you, God, for that moment.  And this one.