I only knew my grandfather in the quiet, tender moments, separate from tragedy and uncertainty. In the evenings, I’d sit on his lap in a well-worn armchair while he watched TV and smoked his pipe and cigars, letting me take a drag or two. It was in these moments that I fell in love with many things: the scent of tobacco on a man’s shirt, the stubble from his chin on my forehead, and the crack of the bat.