It is said that baseball is not like other popular sports in that it is not picked up from other kids in a park, but is passed from one generation to the next. Baseball is taught in backyard games of catch with dads and granddads and from evenings at the ballpark where parents explain the game with the sights, sounds, and smells of the ballpark serving as the background.

This week is the end of the line for The Ballpark in Arlington; or Globe Life Park as it’s called now. The Rangers will start next season in new retractable roof stadium across the street. For me this ballpark was baseball. It was where I learned and fell in love with the game. It was where I would sit with my grandpa and watch players like Pudge, Raffy, and Rusty while he told me stories of watching Mantle, Williams, and Aaron, and then would reach back into the near mythical past to spin tales of Babe Ruth and Walter Johnson. It was a place where legend reached through my grandpa and touched my brother, cousin, and I as we sat with wild-eyed excitement hoping to see something incredible happen before our eyes; or at the least for the Rangers to get another, often elusive win. When I would take swings in the back yard, I would dream of playing at this ballpark; in the bottom of the 9th in game 7 of the World Series, and every time I hit the ball over the fence, I circled the bases with the theme from the Natural blaring loudly through my head, just like it does at The Ballpark.

I remember the lessons I learned there, my grandpa explaining to me that pulling the stockings up high “Like the old time ballplayers” was good, that not running out every ground ball was inexcusable, and that win or lose, you played the game with dignity and respect for the game and for your teammates and opponents.

I remember the first time I went to a game there, in what was at the time a gargantuan new ballpark. We bought tickets at the gate and thus ended up with our backs to the chain-linked fence at the top of the upper deck. The Rangers were good that year and the stadium was loud, at least to my 10-yr-old ears. The Rangers put a 26-7 shellacking on the Baltimore Orioles on a night I will never forget. I remember sitting in the stands for Game 2 of the 2011 ALCS, my back up against the chain-link fence again due to a last-minute hankering that my uncle, cousin, and I had to go to a playoff game. I remember how the stadium reverberated with cheers when Rangers slugger Nelson Cruz sent all the fans into a roar of celebration with a walk-off grand slam.

Baseball is a game of rhythms. Over the course of a single season, players will find their rhythm, inevitably lose it, and then hopefully recover it again. It’s about resilience. Good hitters are successful in 25% of their at bats and a 32% success rate over a career will put you in the rarefied air of the all-time greats. Baseball is about failing miserably in one game and then picking yourself and your teammates up and giving it your best effort the next time out. It’s a microcosm of life with failures, successes, heroic moments, and daring escapes all transpiring over nine innings at the ballpark.

I’ve been to other, more beautiful, or iconic ballparks, but none like this one. This was my ballpark; this was where I learned, dreamed, cheered, cried, and celebrated.

Next year there will be a new ballpark, and as sure as the calendar brings spring; and baseball season, there will be grandpas and dads sitting with their kids, passing on the great lessons of the game to another generation. I hope that for those kids, the new ballpark will be as magical a place as this one was for me.