My grandfather and I didn't have alot in common. Even those areas where I assumed we could share were tripped up by the language barrier, himself a recent immigrant and myself having been weened mostly on KD and trips to Tim Horton's. Therefore it only hit me the other day the peculiarity of my grandfather's affection for baseball and his desire for me to share it with him. When I was young, I didn't delve too deeply into what it all meant. Heck, a free trip to the ballpark and the confectionary **** I could eat! Score! Not there wasn't much talking at the park anyways. The only thing that was shared with the acknowledgement of something good happening for the home team. I'd let out my normal ten year old whoop-whoop but gramps would just sit there while everyone around him was standing and clapping and shouting. His only giveaway that he knew exactly what was happening was a wry look of satisfaction, the corners of his mouth ever so turned upwards. He loved his baseball and wanted me to be there too. He lived until he was 92 and it's what I remember most about him.