The Romance of Baseball
Baseball is romantic.
Not the candlelight and roses kind of romantic — but the kind that lives in sun-warmed bleachers and the leather scent of an old glove and the smell of fresh cut grass. The kind passed down like a family heirloom, stitched together by memories, tradition, and something harder to name. This weekend, that romance comes full circle for me in a way I could never have scripted.
My son, Todd, was just promoted to the Major Leagues.
After ten dedicated years as the Head Sports Turf Superintendent for the Aberdeen Ironbirds — Class A affiliate of the Baltimore Orioles — Todd got the call. The Baltimore Orioles have named him Assistant Sports Turf Superintendent at Camden Yards. The Big Leagues.
It’s a career achievement, no question. But for me, it’s more than a job change. It’s the echo of generations.
One of my earliest lifetime memories is of my Grandpa Marfio handing me his well-worn Baltimore Orioles cap when I was five or six years old. I didn’t even know who the Orioles were at the time — but I remember the scent of his cologne in that hat. It never seemed to fade. That hat held something sacred. I fell in love with the Orioles because Grandpa loved them. His devotion to the team was contagious. He passed it on without saying a word. Boog. Brooks. Palmer. Frank. Grich. I grew to love them all.
Grandpa taught me how to play the game. He pitched to me every time I visited. And even though I was left-handed, he taught me to bat right-handed because that was what he knew to pass down to me. He never got to see me play varsity ball for my high school. He passed just a few weeks before my first game. But I carried him onto the field with me every time I put on my glove. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of warm summer nights watching the Triple-A Tidewater Tides at Met Park in Norfolk, VA. Minor league baseball. The lights. The rhythm. The slow poetry of the game.
And then came college baseball and Marilyn. I was fortunate enough to play in college.
She wasn’t a groupie — but she did love baseball. And she just happened to live twenty minutes north of Baltimore. A city with orange and black in its veins. We fell in love, got married, and in 1990, we welcomed our firstborn: Todd.
On a warm night that June, we took Todd to his very first Orioles game at old Memorial Stadium. He was just a baby, but I knew it was time to pass along the tradition that was handed to me so beautifully. And wouldn’t you know it — the Oriole Bird came into the crowd, scooped up Todd, and carried him onto the field for the National Anthem. I watched in awe as the Bird took him into the dugout, where a few players smiled and poked him in the tummy — including Cal Ripken.
Yes, that Cal Ripken.
Years later, Cal would become the owner of the Aberdeen Ironbirds — the very team where Todd would begin his turf management career. You can’t make this stuff up.
On April 21st, 2025, Todd signed his agreement with the Orioles. Exactly nine years to the day from when he was first invited to work a few games with the grounds crew at Camden Yards. That’s how baseball works — on its own time, with its own rhythm, quietly stitching lives together in ways you don’t see until you look back.
But the story doesn’t end there.
Three of my sons played baseball while growing up. Another served as a sports turf manager for Penn State baseball before joining Todd with the Ironbirds last year. Now, my grandsons play Little League and my granddaughter plays softball. The next generation is stepping into the batter’s box, just like the ones before. Dirt-stained pants, sunflower seeds, laughter under stadium lights — our family’s soundtrack plays on.
Baseball is indeed romantic.
It’s passed down in the form of ball caps and cologne and stadium lights. In babies held on the field and fathers who watch from the stands. Some dreams take decades to grow — but when they bloom, the air changes, the past exhales, and something sacred takes root in the soul.
Now, my son works for the Orioles.
And Grandpa — somewhere — I know you’re smiling.
