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My baby brother was my best friend.

We didn’t always get along, but we had so much in common. We shared a love for music, listening to and playing it, discovering new artists, and so on . . . We both enjoyed the same kind of humor, we loved writing, we both liked to garden and landscape . . . But the one thing that brought us closest together, the one thing through which we shared the most meaningful experiences, was baseball.

I know, for some of you this makes no sense. How can a game, a sport mean so much? You might think it silly that something so simple could have such sway on two people. If you’re asking these questions, I understand. it does seem simple. So, you will have to take me at my word when I tell you that baseball is different . . . It’s different than any other sport, or activity, or passtime. Baseball, unlike any other sport exudes connection points . . . For whatever reason, over and over again, baseball creates the most meaningful communal experiences. It was true for me and my brother.

My brother and I would play catch together. We would try in vain to throw curves and sliders and knuckelballs.

Each January for years found us huddled in the cold, watching Auburn University’s first baseball practice of the season. It was a ritual.

We’d play Wiffle ball together. We had an official score book, ridiculous rules, even kept track of all time wins and losses.

We’d play baseball video games together, late into the night. He was better than me.

We collected baseball cards together. We’d go through boxes and boxes of them, categorizing and sorting them by teams and years.

And most importantly, at least for me, we went to games together.

My brother turned 16 in 1999. That summer, we piled into his beat-up Chevy Blazer and drove to Wrigley field. We had no air-conditioning, and no power steering. We would stop every couple of hours at rest areas and play a game of catch, just to get out of the heat of the car. We had a plan to see every Major League Baseball stadium in the country.

We made it to four before he died.

My biggest regret is that we never got to see Fenway Park together. I fell in love with the Boston Red Sox in 1986. I was nine years old. I have been in love with them ever since. My brother and I planned three separate trips to Fenway together. Each time something happened. Each trip fell through. In the Fall of 2005 we made plans again. This time we were really going, no matter what happened.

And then, he was gone.

Last summer, I finally made it to Fenway. Two of my great, great friends decided I needed to go. They paid for the tickets, I donated sky miles. We spent the weekend in Boston. It was magical.

Tomorrow morning I will meet my two buddies at 5:00 am. We’re driving to St. Louis to watch the Cards and the D’Backs. We’ll get to see Chris Carpenter, a great pitcher. We’ll tour the Cardinal’s stadium and marvel at a true baseball city fresh off hosting the All Star weekend. And we’ll get to see one of the greatest baseball players ever in one of his greatest seasons ever, the inimitable Albert Pujols. The weekend will be incredible. I can barely wait . . .

Part of my brother will be with me as we watch.

He always is, I guess.