Born and raised on the East Coast, I was baptized in the waters of major league baseball as part of the tribal customs of the area. The form, texture and experience of baseball's BIG GAME were shaped in my earliest years by the trading of Topps bubble gum cards (and the sweet, sickly aroma that rose from their waxed packages), daily broadcasts on local radio and television - in black and white, no less! - and pilgrimages across the congested Van Wyck/Whitestone Expressway to Flushing, Queens, home of the New York Mets. For years to follow, THIS became the standard and definition for me of MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL, applied to and adapted at hundreds of ballgames on both coasts, in middle America, and abroad in Australia and Japan.

My daughter - born in 1997 clear across the other end of the Kerouac highway from her Dad - had no option but assume the tribal duties of her (fore)father(s) and at three months achieved a legendary "connection" with the game. During Spring Training of 1998, a foul ball slugged by Barry Bonds came within moments of direct impact with her and her grandfather, whowith uncanny foresight removed his granddaughter from the seating area seconds before the line drive hit her seat back. (Yes, Barry Bonds almost killed my daughter - neither an indictment nor a perjurious comment on the embattled homerun king, mind you, but a statement of fact. Baseball karma was delivered, however, several years ago when I introduced my daughter to former New York Mets pitcher Eric Hillman, who in the strike-shortened season of 1994 threw a fastball that connected with Bonds himself, forcing him to wear an ungainly elbow pad for the remainder of his career!)

Baseball was life, I had argued my entire life. And life, I thought, could not be better - until I moved to Denver in September 2002. Here, at Coors Field, the BIG GAME carried BIG HEART - on the field, in the stands, on the streets leading to the ballpark. I attended three games with my daughter that month in near disbelief that so much affection could be shown for a team - and by a team! - sooooo removed from post-season contention, yet stillplaying every play of every inning with an undying commitment to the GAME and its tribe.

Despite our lifelong allegiances to teams on the respective coasts, my daughter and I traded in our blue caps for black that month - a choice we embrace and celebrate to this day. As recent transplants to Colorado, the Rockies for us are about Generation R, Clint Hurdle and Rocktober; the Blake Street Bombers, Don Baylor and the infamy of Neagle and Hampton belong to another time and another people. Likewise, we believe the sprays of visiting red and blue that color the stands of Coors Field will one day, too, belong to another time and another people. But for Coloradans native and new alike - for now and forever - the color of the GAME is unmistakably purple.