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I.
Matt hadn't played for the Cubs for very long and he'd been in Boston before that only because it seemed the natural place to go after being in Salem. He'd settled in to the Muggle world and that had been that. He'd been traded to Chicago about a year back and he'd had to resettled once again, to find out this time that there was no easily accessible wizarding community.
That was Middle America for you.
Quidditch never quite cut it for Matt. It couldn't be helped. Maybe it was his half-blood status, but Quidditch just hadn't done it. He'd played Beater for six years at Salem and he'd been damned good at it; the skills had translated well into baseball. Baseball, the all American Muggle sport. Matt really was a Muggle at heart, despite his magical schooling. Certainly enough for baseball. It was the only thing he'd ever wanted to do.
II
His teammates can't use steroids. Matt can't use magic. It's only fair. He could hit a home run every single time he went up to bat, but where would the fun be in that? The game was only fun when everyone was on a level playing field. He doesn't bring his wand anywhere near the field. Sure, he's pretty Muggle, but his wand still brings a certain temptation. Everything is easier that way, after all. He doesn't even charm his water bottle to stay full. It keeps him honest.
Baseball isn't like Quidditch. There are no open tryouts. Players are groomed from the moment they enter their tender adolescent years and sent off to college with the hopes that someone in the majors will recognize their talent and recruit them for some sort of million dollar contract. Quidditch recruiters show up at schools occasionally, but it's nothing like Muggles and their baseball.
Attending Salem Academy, Matt was surrounded by Muggle universities, but he never went to one. The Boston Red Sox didn't do open tryouts, you had to be recruited. Drafted. With little chance of that happening measures had been resorted to. They're not measures Matt is proud of, even to this day, and thus, honesty is extremely important to him. And honesty means no magic.
Sometimes, jumping up against the walls at Wrigley to make a catch, his feet leave the ground just the slightest bit more than they should. It's magic. Uncontrolled. Matt can't help it.
III
He's three years old when his father, a Muggle, buys him his first baseball mitt. He's hooked from the moment the leather touches his skin. It's got nothing on dragon hide. Nothing. That would never change, not even during his six years playing Quidditch.
Baseball sets into his blood, as does everything else Muggle. Oh, there's magic in the house yes his mother, Joannah Prewett-Murton, is a halfbloodbut the family is rather 'normal' at heart, so normal that his mother almost thinks hopes that Matt won't receive an owl from Salem. It comes, of course, when he turns eleven. Matt doesn't want to go at first and it takes his parents a while to convince him that it's a good idea.
They don't have baseball there and Matt isn't very keen on this thing called 'Quidditch'.