Memoir:  You know the type. That overbearing baseball mom who shouts through the fence: are you kidding me? when the umpire calls strike three on her precious boy. Or the

Fiction: Chapter 1 Twice upon two times, magic would dramatically alter the fortunes of baseball’s New York Mets. First, there was 1969. The Mets phoenixed from last place to win

Nonfiction:  I love baseball. It offers a sense of order in an often chaotic, messy world. There is poetry in its movements and strategy. Unlike other sports, where the main

Nonfiction:  I’m not a nationalist, but I’ll accept the label of patriot.  I get teary as somebody (not me) hits the high note in the Star Spangled Banner. During our

Fiction: “NOBLAAAAAWWWCK!!!” The obnoxious yell whizzed past her right ear toward the baseball diamond. What did he say? He sounded like the duck from the AFLAC commercials. “NOBLAAAWWWCK!” Yes. Definitely

Fiction:  “Now listen fellas, you gotta be pretty lousy to lose a hundred games. You gotta really stink up the joint, and that’s what we did. We stunk up the

Nonfiction: Like a nervous teenager about to meet her high school crush, I checked my makeup for the third time, popped an Altoid and anxiously paced the restaurant lobby. My

Fiction: Sylvie was in love with her adopted home of Seattle – with the moody, gray skies, the rain, the emerald green landscape. She loved the hum of the city,

Fiction: The scene in front of me looks like Judy Woodruff’s PBS News Hour home office. Bookcase behind her, carefully curated, in my sister’s case arranged by color. I watch

Nonfiction: I can sit on my motorcycle, rumbling down Coast Highway 101, following my front tire to Seaside. As long as there is road, sometimes it isn’t possible to discover