SAN FRANCISCO — The wind was strong enough to blow a pitcher off the mound.
The infields typically featured more concrete than dirt.
The fans — my parents and a few other moms and dads — ditched blankets and brought sleeping bags and lawn chairs to watch us play on weeknights.
It’s not the romantic portrait of fresh-cut grass and picturesque summer nights Hollywood sells, but it’s the way I came to know and love baseball.
A fifth-generation San Franciscan, I grew up playing the game at three playgrounds named after the Sunset District (West Sunset, South Sunset, even plain old Sunset) and on a few other patches of dirt where sliding into second base was more likely to land you in the emergency room than in scoring position.