When I was 12 years old, during the summer of 1984, my Grandma Silvey arranged to take me to my first MLB game in Atlanta at Fulton County Stadium. We saw the Dodgers play the Braves because the Dodgers were her favorite team, and therefore, they were my favorite team, too. Other family members came along, too, but in my mind, the trip was a very special moment for me and my grandma. I remember being so excited about seeing in person the players I loved that I was nearly sick to my stomach with anticipation. We went early to see batting practice in hopes of getting an autograph or two, but the only player who stuck around to sign autographs was one my grandma said didn’t deserve to play because he didn’t seem to care when he struck out, even smiled on his way back to the dugout.

Of course, back then, we didn’t have an easy way to access MLB attire from teams around the country. I now often take for granted how easily I can log on to Amazon and order a Dodger t-shirt on Prime, and the very shirt I ordered will arrive at my front door two days later. No, back in 1984, when I was preparing for my first MLB game, I had to make my own Dodger t-shirt. I bought fabric paint and did my best to replicate the Dodgers script logo. And I was proud to wear my Dodger shirt throughout Atlanta as we explored the morning before the game. Plus, I was thrilled to find out I could buy a real Dodger shirt at any of the dozen street vendors outside the stadium because they sold merchandise for the visiting team, too. Hard to find such a street vendor today, though, but why would we need them with Amazon so handy?

I remember we decided to eat lunch at a food court; I can’t remember exactly where we were, but I want to say it was at the CNN center. I stood in line with my mom to buy a cheeseburger or Chinese food, I imagine, and I heard some girls behind me. “Dodgers? Who likes the Dodgers anyway? Nice design, Dodger girl,” they said.

“Thanks,” I answered. I knew they were making fun of me, but I pretended to be flattered. That was the best way to deal with girls like that, but I am pretty sure my red face gave away my true feelings. I didn’t regret wearing the shirt because I have always been the type to let others know when I thought myself above the crowd or when I thought they needed to know that the majority was wrong or dumb or cliche. But I didn’t like the negative attention even if I sought it, but I carried on, wore my homemade shirt to the ballgame, and cheered as loudly as I could for the Dodgers.

Fast forward 33 years. I am 45 years old now and still a Dodger fan. Cubs, too, but those two clubs have always been my teams, and I was able to see the Dodgers play in Atlanta one other time in the mid-90s (I wanted to see Brett Butler live one time before he retired). I have seen the Braves play other teams, and I have visited ballparks in Cleveland, Chicago, Boston, Kansas City, and Cincinnati. Truth told, nothing compares to the atmosphere at Fenway, but returning to Atlanta to see my Dodgers take on the Braves in their new stadium tonight inspired some of that old excitement. This time, my husband bought the tickets and arranged the travel, and we brought our younger son to the game. My grandma passed away more than a decade ago, but I try to keep her memory alive through stories like these. Both of our boys have been to multiple MLB games, so maybe for Joel, this was no different than the other ones. He wanted to see the new Sun Trust Ball Park, and he was aware of how well the Dodgers had been playing this season and for the last few seasons. Yet, this game carried some sense of completion for me, some full-circle feeling. A way to tell my grandma I was carrying on her legacy, teaching my boys to love the game as she did.

I bought a great Dodger shirt on Amazon last week, and it arrived at my door yesterday. I looked forward to wearing it proudly as I walked into the new state-of-the-art Braves stadium, touting my desire to be different once again. As we made our way into the stadium, though, my thoughts strayed from my attire. I watched thousands of people walking in to see a MLB game on a random Tuesday night. People wearing blue jeans and sandals, women wearing stylish mini-dresses with matching flip-flops, men wearing khaki shorts and the jersey of their favorite player. Couples on a date or a double date, families with little kids, grandparents with the whole family. Girls night out. Boys night out. A remarkable sampling of American life –  all who had bought tickets, paid for parking, and then spent money on beer or nachos or Dippin Dots. And this scene replays every night at 15 different cities in America for at least 162 nights, from spring to fall, every year. More if you count spring training or if your team makes the playoffs.

And I wasn’t alone in wearing a Dodger shirt. I saw them all over the place. I caught a few strange stares from a few Braves fans, and the employee monitoring how many customers enter the clubhouse store joked that I couldn’t come in to the store with Marc and Joel since I was wearing the Dodgers shirt. But then, their stares didn’t seem so menacing now, and my face didn’t redden with embarrassment over my shirt. Maybe because it was store bought and not homemade. And then, as we headed to our seats, one woman looked at me and said, “Go Dodgers” with a thumbs up. I returned the gesture with a smile.

1984 seems like a lifetime ago, and the girl I was then seems far, far away. Most of the time, I am glad she has faded away. Then, one night in 2017, I visit a brand new ball field, and I can almost feel her close by once again.