At a time when the sporting world seems to be losing its perspective, author John Clendening provides another viewpoint. In Love Letters to Sports, he celebrates sports at its best-its moments in time that capture our hearts and remind us of the role it can play as a touch point in our lives. In this memoir, Clendening narrates his special sports moments, such as his first-ever road trip with his eight-year-son and how his son's sports obsession at a young age reminds him of his own. He tells of going to a football game in Texas and falling in love all over again with a certain cheerleader, and how his favorite announcer brought him to tears on the night his youngest daughter was born. This collection of 19 personal essays pays tribute to our own moments in time and moments in life when sports play a supporting role in creating memories never to be forgotten. From football to tennis, from baseball to golf, from the fields of youth to the armchair of middle age, this is not a book about love, nor is it one about sports. It's about the many times and places the two have met in one man's life.

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Minnesota? Nice. I've long had a running gag going with Minnesota. The gag being that I own it. Oh, I've never had anything against the state, anyplace that goes by The Land of 10,000 Lakes impossible not to like really, if not for its actual amenities for the sense of natural beauty and charm its nickname conjures up. You throw in a little Garrison Keillor, and what's not to like? It's just that, when it comes to sports at least, as a native Southern Californian I've always considered myself to have had the upper hand. It all starts with the Lakers, who started out in Minneapolis but after the Dodgers opened the door moved west just a few years later. People who wonder why the Lakers are called the Lakers, a strange thing when you think about it given that they play in The Land of No Lakes Because We Have an Ocean Instead, but think George Mikan and that's all you really need to know. Then came 2002, the year the proper noun The Long-Suffering Angels Fan became obsolete. You see, that was the year my Halos finally won it all. And who did they beat to get to their first Series? That would be none other than the Minnesota Twins. The fact that the two teams had come into existence in the same year, '61, was not lost on me at the time. Push had come to shove; Southern California had won again. 2003? My Mighty Ducks were on the brink of their first-ever Stanley Cup finals. Who stood in the way? The Minnesota Wild. Mighty Ducks win. I win. Minnesota loses. Again. My self-professed sports ownership of All Things Minnesota was so complete, it even crossed state lines. In 2000, I moved to Dallas. And what, as a hockey fan, did I encounter once I got there? That would be the Dallas Stars. Who had moved from, of course, Minneapolis, where they had been known as the North Stars. And whose departure had opened the door for the Wild. Or something like that. Complete? You have to really own a state if you move and you still inherit a team it lost. Lot of coming and going in Minnesota sports over the years, I guess. What has been a constant through it all though is this saying they have there. "Minnesota Nice," they call it, and it's supposed to somehow symbolize the inherent friendliness of the locals, a friendliness that apparently can sometimes go to extremes. Quite a nice place to visit, it says. After all, worse comes to worse, there's gonna be a lake nearby. What's not to like? Even if you do own it. ---------- Fast forward to 2010. You can't believe your good luck. It's several months off still; but you've been offered two 40-yard-line seats to the USC-Minnesota game by a co-worker who lives in Minneapolis and has season tickets. You present them to your son for his birthday in May. You're as Trojan as they come, third-generation even, something that's not easy to pull off when a university is only 130 years old. But despite the fact that your son – like you – has been undergoing medical brainwashing since he was in utero, this is to be his first time seeing our team in person. You think about it. You realize your son is a big Vikings fan, 90 percent of which is because he likes the way Adrian Peterson runs in Wii. You look up the schedule. The Vikings are home that weekend. You raise your eyebrow. Greed begins to set in. Late September? Still baseball season. You look up the schedule. The Twins are home, too. You raise the other eyebrow. Summer nears its end. You look at the school schedule. That Friday is a teacher in-service day; your son is to have no school . You can take the day off and fly up together on Friday morning. You lean back, nod. You reach for your wallet. You hesitate. This is gonna be a reach. You keep reaching. You are creating a mountain out of a molehill. You tell your son. You are thrilled; you have pleased him. He is more thrilled; he has no idea how much this will cost. Finally, the weekend has arrived. The build-up has been Christmas-like in scope. Except for the fact that, in this case, Santa is coming for the first time at age 8. The last time expectations were this high, Reagan and Gorbachev were heading to Rejkjavik. And we all know how that turned out. Friday night. The Twin Cities are yours. You're striding into Target Field. The look on your son's face is worth as much as the tickets. Or close to it. You're early, early enough for batting practice. You lean over the railing, your son pleading to the handful of Oakland A's players enjoying being paid millions to shag flies for a ball. They pay you no heed. You'd like them all to be cut. You move to just behind the dugout. Batting practice is over now. You notice a stray ball on the dirt. You attempt to get the attention of the security guard standing on the field. You look to your right; two teenagers are doing the same. You flash a look at the one closest to you; may the better man win, your eyes say. What they leave out is that to your son this ball is more valuable than Christ's cloak. You look at the security guard again; you point to your son. You're not playing fair now. You win. Minnesota teenagers lose. You make your way to your seats now, the only stop a photo you take of your son with Tony Oliva. You remember him; to your son, he is a stranger with whom he is being asked to stand and smile. You hit the dummy-proof button, wonder for a moment whatever happened to Zoilo Versailles and move on. The game? The game, the game. Rarely in your now-multiple-decades of attending baseball games have you cared less about an outcome. The home team has lost though, your son disappointed, a Twins fan for life already to be sure, but all he knows as you empty past the statue of Carew and back into the dogpile of downtown is that he is wearing what is surely the greatest Justin Morneaux jersey ever. You nod, your wallet thinning further before you hit your first pillow. Saturday. It's the third week of September; it's still 90ish in Dallas. Minneapollis? 60ish. See: crisp fall day, the definition. All together now: What's not to like? You've hit the rally, your son hearing the band and the cheerleaders up close and personal for the first time, and you're checking out the Golden Gophers' new stadium. It's a sight to see, the new digs spelling out Minnesota in yellow amid the maroon seats, but what's worth more at auction is the newest look-of-amazement on your son's face: his first sighting of our beloved USC Trojans in full uniform. You're thrilled, too, the northern sun glistening off of their cardinal helmets, their gold pants looking like they've been water colored and you're looking at a passing mural. Three hours and a trip to the team store later, the game is done, a victory and a new Golden Gopher football, refrigerator magnet and mini-helmet set in hand, a victory and purchase not without their moments of indigestion but a victory and an escape from further purchases nonetheless, and the next thing you know your son is leaning over the railing, being handed a sweatband by the same Allen Bradford whose running saved the day and the band and the cheerleaders are at it again, your son now the grizzled veteran at making the victory sign as the rumble plays on. By the time the players have emerged from the stadium a half-hour later, your son having greeted them all like favorite uncles, your having taken pictures of him with the coach, the star quarterback and the star wide receiver, you're starting to think this is a weekend for the ages, it being an understatement to say everything has come together, the only reason for pause being that since your camera now contains a set of family heirlooms if the security machines at the airport somehow mess them up you will never recover. What's hitting you, what's really hitting you now, is the symmetry of it all. You were 7 when your dad took you to your first USC game. You don't remember much about it other than the scor