Baseball, Hot Dogs, and Pure Americana: The Scent of Summer Nostalgia

Baseball and summer go together like hot dogs and mustard. Or overpriced stadium food and zero regrets. There’s just something about a ballpark hot dog—maybe it’s the nostalgia, maybe it’s the magic, or maybe it’s just the fact that after paying $12, you will convince yourself it’s the best one you’ve ever had.

A Brief (But Important) History of the Hot Dog 

The humble hot dog—a simple, glorious creation of mystery meat and magic—has been fueling summer memories for over a century. But where did it come from?

It Started with the Sausage…

Sausages have been around for thousands of years (yes, really). The ancient Babylonians, Greeks, and Romans all had their own versions, proving that humans have always agreed on one thing: stuffing meat into a tube and calling it dinner.

Enter: The Bun (a Game-Changer)

Legend has it that Charles Feltman, a German butcher in Coney Island, started selling sausages in soft rolls in the 1860s so people could eat them without burning their hands. Simple. Genius. Delicious.

Feltman’s in the 1920s—where the hot dogs were endless, the crowds were massive, and the only thing faster than the service was the turnover of 5 million hungry customers a year!

Baseball + Hot Dogs = A Match Made in Heaven

By the early 1900s, hot dogs were popping up at ballparks, and fans quickly realized that nothing pairs with baseball like a snack you can eat in five bites flat.

Legend credits Harry M. Stevens, a concessionaire at New York Giants games, for coining the term “hot dog” when he shouted for fans to buy his “hot dachshund sausages”—but since a newspaper cartoonist couldn’t spell “dachshund,” he just wrote “hot dog” instead. And just like that, a tradition was born.

Hot dogs became part of the baseball experience, just like catching a foul ball, debating bad ump calls, and watching grown adults turn their hats inside out for a rally.

Baseball: A Game, A Ritual, A Time Machine

Baseball isn’t just a game—it’s a summer tradition, a rite of passage, and a time machine to simpler days. It’s kids in little league uniforms dreaming of game-winning home runs, families passing down their love for a team (even when it’s a decades-long heartbreak—looking at you, Cubs fans pre-2016), and time slowing down just enough to savor every crack of the bat and seventh-inning stretch.

It’s the smell of fresh-cut grass, hot dogs sizzling on the grill, and the unmistakable sound of a ball smacking into a well-worn glove. It’s grandfathers explaining the infield fly rule to kids who just want to know when they can get ice cream. It’s the thrill of catching a foul ball and the agony of watching it slip through your hands—only for the guy two rows back to snag it like he was born for the big leagues.

Baseball is steeped in history, from the first recorded game in 1846 to the rise of legends like Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, and Hank Aaron. It’s a game that survived the Civil War, saw stadiums rise during the Great Depression, and even carried on through world wars. It’s a sport of quirks and traditions—walk-up songs, superstitions, and that one family member who insists their team only wins when they sit in a specific chair.

Hank Aaron's 1954 rookie card: once a pack-insert, now a six-figure investment.

And let’s talk stadium food. Sure, the classic hot dog reigns supreme, but every ballpark has its own spin—garlic fries in San Francisco, deep-dish pizza in Chicago, Dodger Dogs in L.A. Some places even serve two-foot-long chili dogs or fried grasshoppers (because why not?).

Wrigley Field, 2016: When Chicago couldn’t decide between deep-dish pizza and a classic hot dog… so they just put one inside the other. Innovation at its finest.

At its core, baseball is about moments—big and small—that become memories, passed down like a favorite old glove or a perfectly broken-in mitt. It’s about the magic of a summer evening at the ballpark, the hope that this year might finally be the year, and the joy of a game that, no matter how much the world changes, always feels like home.

For us, some of those memories even came with a hint of future greatness. My cousin Kevin—pictured here during one of our backyard “training sessions” (I was older and clearly more experienced)—went on to play in the minor leagues. He still plays in a local rec league today. Some things just stick, especially when you grow up sliding into makeshift bases and calling home runs when the ball splashed into the water.

Backyard warm-ups with cousin Kevin. One of us became a minor league pitcher. One of us became a nostalgic storyteller. You can guess who’s who.

These days, Kevin towers over me—but I still claim coaching credit from the backyard days. Some things change. Some things really, really grow.

The Farm, the Field, and the Spirit of Summer

But baseball isn’t just played in stadiums—it’s played in backyards, open fields, and makeshift diamonds where bases are old sacks filled with rice (which, as we learned in the ’80s, were a much better idea than slate). It’s kids pouring their hearts into every swing, makeshift dugouts built with scrap wood, and summer afternoons where the sun never seems to set.

Summer 1949: The annual farm game—where the competition was fierce, the outfield stretched to the pond, and any deep hit came with a free swimming lesson. Decades later, the tradition continued… but not without a few mishaps.

Every summer out on the farm, we kept the softball games going—yes, softball. (Baseball purists, don’t come for us. When you’ve got kids, cousins, and Aunt Mary at bat, a softball just makes good sense.) The tradition stretched all the way back to the 1940s—like the 1949 game in that photo above—and somehow, decades later, we were still out there, running bases, calling questionable plays, and laughing through it all. Nothing fancy, just a lot of heart, a few scraped knees, and makeshift everything.

And sometimes, the spirit of summer meant bending the rules a bit—especially if Penny (Grandpa) had anything to say about it.

Whenever one of the littler cousins came up to bat, Penny—our fearless pitcher—would give us his classic signal: a little wave or subtle nod that meant, “Let them run.” Suddenly, the outfield would shrink, the tags would slow, and sometimes we'd even “miss” a throw so they could round the bases to a faux home run. Us older cousins? Oh, we grumbled. We had strategy! We had plays! But Penny didn’t care—he just wanted to make sure the little ones felt like legends. Looking back, we get it. (Mostly.)

One year in the ’80s, Penny decided to get “creative” and used some old pieces of slate from the shed as bases. Solid idea in theory. But the first poor soul (Elaine) who made it to first base slid into that slab, gashed her foot open, and ended up needing stitches. After that, slate was officially banned from farm sports—and we went back to the classics: feed sacks, towels, and anything else soft enough to survive summer.

Elaine, post-slide, with her foot wrapped up like a little farm league war hero—front and center in the annual cousin lineup photo. She took one for the team… and for the future safety of bases everywhere.

At Penny & Rose, we believe scent has the power to bring back those memories—the warmth of the sun, the joy of long summer days spent outdoors, and the sweet, bright aroma of citrus lingering in the air. That’s why we created Summertime Spirits, inspired by those moments—the crack of the bat, the cheer of the crowd, and the simple happiness of a game played under open skies.

Because whether you’re cheering from the stands, grilling in the backyard, or reminiscing about the baseball games of childhood, summer memories never fade. They linger—like the sound of a roaring crowd, the warmth of the sun on your face, and, if you’re lucky, the scent of limes and laughter floating through the air.

"Summer is forever."

Because in our family, those summer days on the field weren’t just fun—they became the stories we still tell, long after the last inning.

Got a hot dog memory? A Little League legend? Maybe your family had a rally cap superstition or a summer baseball game that ended in a sprinkler chase. We’d love to hear it—drop your story in the comments and bring a little summertime spirit to the page!

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