Baseball season always means my mom’s chicken. Without the games, it’s filling a void.

When I was a skinny kid growing up on a farm in Northern California, the ballgames on the radio kept me company, whether I was hoeing weeds or flinging a rubber ball against the sliding, wood shanty door.

A baseball broadcast hews to a rhythm — long, languid, dreamy patches, punctuated by frissons of excitement when the batter sends one on a deep arc, maybe, just maybe this time, headed for the stands. The announcers become faithful companions. When there’s a game on the radio, you’re never alone.