Riding to the ballpark in Dad’s vintage Bronco feels like something out of a movie. The engine rumbles, the wind rushes through the open top, and I’ve got my glove on my lap, ready for the game. We talk baseball the whole way—who’s pitching, what the lineup might be. People always glance over or give us a nod, and I can’t help but sit up a little straighter. Pulling into the lot in that Bronco just feels cool—like game day’s already off to a good start.