I have long been an avid fan of baseball, and I especially love baseball history. Sometimes I’ll put a game on while I’m working on something, and my kids hate it. It has even become a joke around our house, when we’re trying to decide on something to watch, I’ll say: “How about baseball?!” The invariable response is: “Nooooooo!” in unison. One evening last week, though, one of my boys started watching one of the World Series games with me. He asked questions, so I explained the way the Series works. Pretty soon, he asked if he could stay up and watch some with me. So, last night the whole family watched the end of game six together. All but one of them fell asleep, and, by the end, it was just my wife and me with a pile of our sleeping children. It was awesome.

That game reminded me of the 1991 World Series, between the Minnesota Twins and Atlanta Braves, one of the most dramatic World Series of all-time. That was the first World Series that I ever watched, and I watched it with my Daddy. In the grand scheme of things, baseball doesn’t matter all that much. It’s a game. What matters, though, is time spent together.

Yes, it was past their bedtime. No, they likely won’t remember any of the specifics of the game. That’s alright. They’ll remember snuggling up and staying up. They’ll know that investments were made into their lives. They’ll do the same with their kids, if the Lord is willing. I’ll remember it too. I’ll treasure the memory of my baby boy falling asleep in my arms, watching the ballgame. I’ll remember the older two laying side-by-side on their bellies, propped on their elbows, asking me who’s who, and what’s going on. I’ll remember my middle son leaning back during commercial breaks and closing his eyes, just for a moment, so he could muster the strength to hang in there one more inning.