When we did not go to the ballpark, Holly and I listened to games on the radio to help us sleep. During the off-season, my father would play cassettes of old games, which, he contends, acted like a sedative.

My father’s voice was everywhere as I grew up, a familiar and comforting soundtrack. In elementary school, his voice was in the video store while we picked out movies for sleepovers. In college, while celebrating my 19th birthday at the only bar in town that didn’t check IDs, there he was, on the glowing television in the corner.

I finally became a true fan as an adult. Although 2010 was not an original year to become a Giants fan, it seemed inevitable. That July, my father received the Ford C. Frick Award during the Hall of Fame induction ceremony in Cooperstown, N.Y. The air was so thick with achievement; I could feel it pressing into my skin. By the time we left Cooperstown, the Giants had started to play miraculously well, albeit with gut-wrenching dramatic tension.

That postseason, for the first time in my life, I watched a baseball game with my father. He came to New York to broadcast the Yankees-Twins American League division series for ESPN. On his night off, we watched the Giants-Braves National League series on television. He spoke of statistics and strategy. I remember thinking, This man knows a lot about baseball. I also remember thinking, Everyone should be so lucky to watch a game with Jon Miller. But of course, many people do.

Baseball has become the source of higher highs and lower lows in my life than I care to admit. My brother told me that to be a true Giants fan, I had to love the exquisite torture, to crave it. My father told me to relax, to enjoy, that at the end of the day, it was just a game.

But it isn’t just a game. I was born in Texas because my father was a Rangers broadcaster. I grew up in Baltimore because of the Orioles. We were American League, we were Cal Ripken, we were hot summer nights at the yard. As an adult, I visit my family in Northern California and shiver watching Giants games in the whipping wind as the sun set over San Francisco Bay.

My favorite place to watch baseball is still the broadcast booth. Being there just feels like home. When the Giants did not go all the way last season, I felt the pain of a true fan. But sometimes, that’s how it goes.

That’s life. That’s baseball.