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The light is starting to fade from the afternoon, that soft gold that means the day is getting ready to rest. The dishes are done, stacked and quiet in the drainer. And from the other room, I hear it—the low, familiar murmur of the announcer’s voice, the faint crack of a bat that means he’s found a game.
I’ve never been a true fan, not in the way he is. I don’t know the stats or the players’ histories. My understanding of the rules is a patchwork quilt of things I’ve picked up over the years. For a long time, the steady hum of baseball felt like a language I couldn’t quite speak. It belonged to him, a quiet ritual he brought with him into our life together.
But a funny thing happens when you share a home with someone. Their rhythms become your own. The sound of his keys in the door. The way he makes his morning coffee. And, from April to October, the gentle, rolling cadence of baseball in the background.
Now, there are little feet pattering on the floor while the game is on. A tower of blocks might be built and knocked down during the top of the third. A storybook is read, a soft head leaning against my shoulder, while a runner makes it to second base. The steady rhythm of the broadcast, the rise and fall of the crowd, has become a kind of soundtrack to our evenings.
It’s funny how the consistent presence of these mlb games on the television has woven itself into the fabric of our family. It is the sound of my husband relaxing, of him settling into the safety of home. And I know, without even realizing it, our children are absorbing it, too. This low hum in the background is part of the soundscape of their childhood—a quiet signal that the day is winding down, that we are all here, together.
It’s not about the score, not really. It’s about the presence. It’s the gentle noise that fills the space between things, the auditory thread that connects a busy afternoon to a quiet evening. A sound that, for all of us, simply means we’re home. 🧸
I wonder, what’s the background sound of your family’s life?
I’ve never been a true fan, not in the way he is. I don’t know the stats or the players’ histories. My understanding of the rules is a patchwork quilt of things I’ve picked up over the years. For a long time, the steady hum of baseball felt like a language I couldn’t quite speak. It belonged to him, a quiet ritual he brought with him into our life together.
But a funny thing happens when you share a home with someone. Their rhythms become your own. The sound of his keys in the door. The way he makes his morning coffee. And, from April to October, the gentle, rolling cadence of baseball in the background.
Now, there are little feet pattering on the floor while the game is on. A tower of blocks might be built and knocked down during the top of the third. A storybook is read, a soft head leaning against my shoulder, while a runner makes it to second base. The steady rhythm of the broadcast, the rise and fall of the crowd, has become a kind of soundtrack to our evenings.
It’s funny how the consistent presence of these mlb games on the television has woven itself into the fabric of our family. It is the sound of my husband relaxing, of him settling into the safety of home. And I know, without even realizing it, our children are absorbing it, too. This low hum in the background is part of the soundscape of their childhood—a quiet signal that the day is winding down, that we are all here, together.
It’s not about the score, not really. It’s about the presence. It’s the gentle noise that fills the space between things, the auditory thread that connects a busy afternoon to a quiet evening. A sound that, for all of us, simply means we’re home. 🧸
I wonder, what’s the background sound of your family’s life?
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