Tomorrow is opening day and I cannot wait. Baseball begins once again and every single team holds the dream of hoisting the World Series trophy and riding down the noisy and celebratory streets in front of a proud and happy fan base, hungry for a reason to celebrate. Spring is here, hope is high and every team is undefeated. What a terrific time of year and it is one of the many reasons why I love baseball!
Once, I too, had dreams of the big leagues and waving to everyone from the top of a float during that marvelous victory parade. I began what I was certain would be my path to the big leagues as a scrawny little-leaguer; left handed throwing and right handed hitting. I patrolled the outfield of our township’s parks leagues, once in a great while joining the infield at first base, when the regulars were hurt, injured, on vacation or simply tired of playing a position that I personally dreamed of manning each and every inning of every game.
I was faster than most, could detect where a ball seemed destined to land and would almost always arrive in time to catch it; often surprising the unsuspecting runner who forgot to tag up, thinking there was no earthly way that a short, thin, quiet little kid would ever be able to track down that certain homerun. I usually did catch that blast and did that often enough to keep me in the lineup, even though, in all of my days in little league, I never hit a round-tripper. I did hit for a high average, could swipe a bag, if the rules in my league allowed, and almost always got the signs correct. In short, I did not hurt a team, always showed up and never missed a game. ( I would never do that, I wanted to play so badly that I often hid injuries and sicknesses from my parents and coaches.) I was a true gamer. If only I had talent.
I did have talent for playing baseball board games. My friends and I bought those games, purchased all of the extra cards and players that allowed us to assemble complete major league teams replete with accurate statistics, that enabled us to play realistic games for hours, even days on end. We would create our lineups, roll the dice over and over again and attempt, without success, to play every game of every season for all of the major league teams. After a few years of striving we slowly began to realize that we were chasing an impossible dream and turned instead to drafting our own all-star teams. We formed leagues of these superstars and passed away the summer gain glory and fame in our basements, dining rooms and porches, while also watching the real thing on our television sets. (How could we pass up those new and spectacular colors? Black and white was so 1950!)
But we did not just play board game baseball, we also played the real thing. At least three or four times a week, we would scour the neighborhood to find enough players to assemble two teams, usually about 4 or 5 on a side and play endless games on hard-scrabble diamonds behind the very schools we attended in the fall and winter when there was no baseball to be played. We would play until the street lights came on and we were forced to go home. The sound of the ball hitting the bat was as sweet as sugar to all of us and we always kept score, because there had to be a winner. (Why else play the game?) Not one of us ever played an inning for our high school teams, although one of us, my best friend, Skip, did make that team as a pinch-hitter. The rest of us just kept on dreaming. We were so proud of him!
Those dreams never did die for me and when my son was old enough, he too, wanted to play baseball. Unlike me, he had talent. He could hit, field, pitch and run and hit for power. He was a true five-tool player and was also blessed to be left-handed in both throwing and hitting, unlike his father. His true talent was on the mound and he was very good at it. I was his coach until his skills surpassed my ability to help him any more. I thoroughly enjoyed coaching his teams, and along with the other players and coaches, those dreams that I had as a little boy were once again possible. Spring was in the air and I looked forward to every minute of every practice and game. To be back on that glorious field of dreams was like being re-born. I was young once again.
Yet, those days, too, would pass. Other adventures awaited my son and his interests turned to other pursuits. Two of his teams did win championships, and I watched in the stands, occassionaly taking to the mike to announce the games. I was still a small part of the action, but my physical presence was drifting further and further from those glorious white lines where all of the action really takes place.
Now in my 60’s, I still await the crack of the bat and the smells that only a baseball game can produce. I attend live games wherever and whenever I can. In my travels, both personal and business, I have always hunted down a game. It did not have to be professional, or even minor league. I have drifted into high school and college games, always sitting at the end of a row, so I can more easily follow the action, or change seats if I desire a better view. Sometimes I am mistaken for a scout, as I frequently keep score and anticipate what the coaches and players will do. As one who has witnessed thousands of games over his lifetime, I can pretty well pick up the signs, the moves, the adjustments and the motives of the game. I can do that because it is in my blood. It always has been and always will be.
I will always love baseball because it is such a pure sport. There is no clock to beat and so much of the game takes place between pitches and also when you least expect it. It is the only sport I know of where the team without the ball does all of the scoring and where there are never any ties. (Except for one terrible all-star game that I would personally like to forget.) Movies and books have been written about it. Famous authors, actors, businessmen and athletes have purchased a team, simply because they love the sport so much. It truly is that special of a game. There is nothing like it.
Baseball is special, I believe, because it instantly and always brings us back to the days of our youth, when everything and anything was possible. Our dreams were endless and any possible limitation simply did not exist. Like baseball, our lives were in the early innings and we always would have another “at bat” to make a glorious comeback and seize victory from certain defeat. We played as a team, we helped each other win and in so doing formed bonds that would last a lifetime. We learned structure, math, teamwork and a boundless will to win. We struggled and won. We suffered and lost….but we always got back up, because there was always another game to be played tomorrow. The victories seemed less important, and the losses hurt a lot less when I knew we would play another game tomorrow and all the wrongs would soon be righted. Baseball taught life’s lessons, not found in any classroom or book.
That is why I love baseball so much. And tomorrow, another season begins. I cannot wait. Time to start warming up.