It’s the first baseball broadcast of the spring. The veterans play a few innings, then step aside to let the youngsters have a turn.

“James Loney is just 19 years old,” says the TV announcer.

“19 years old!” says my daughter, looking up from her dolls. She had been ignoring the game until now.

My daughter is 3. She is impressed by 19. It still sounds like a kid’s age to her, but it’s older. Older means being-allowed-to-do-things. Older also means bigger, and bigger means being-able-to-do-things. James Loney is able to do things.

“Wow, 19 years old!” she repeats.

Back when I was 19, I–
  Oh, geez. I’m twice as old as Loney, aren’t I?
Another new milestone: you know you’re getting old when–

Loney swings. His follow-through reminds me of David Justice. Justice and I are the same age. Justice retired from playing over a year ago.

Sigh. Sometimes, older means not-being-able-to-do-things.

Later, my daughter maneuvers into her booster seat for supper. As she’s settling in, she sings from the D-O-D-G-E-R-S Song:

“Leo Durocher, Leo Durocher,
Starts to wiggle and to twitch.”

She has no idea who or what a Leo Durocher is, other than something that wiggles and twitches. Heck, I don’t really know, either. He was before my time, too.

But her little song makes me smile. Baseball is back, and the generations have resumed their conversations with each other. Suddenly, the world seems like a whole lot less lonely place to live.