Earl Weaver died the year that I turned 25.

And yet, every year around this time, I find myself thinking about him. There’s something about the fragmentary mingling of the baseball and basketball seasons, with one ending while the other starts up, that feels poignant to me.

In Texas, we really only have two truly distinct periods of weather: the three different variations of summer, and football season.

For most of my life, though, this has been my favorite time of year. Baseball was the first sport I loved, and it seems fitting that basketball followed shortly after. There’s something in the air at this time of year, during the brief yet invigorating respite that natives frequently refer to as our three weeks of Fall.

It feels earned, like a long, soft rain after a drought.

And so to

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