Baseball fans around these parts are approaching full rut, as
they no doubt are around the nation and indeed the world. Spring
training set the sap to rising and the approach of the season
opener has them salivating like a drunks in a wine cellar. This is
of course all for the better. It is good to have passions in life,
especially when they involve sitting in the sun, drinking beer, and
thinking the long thoughts of a spring or summer afternoon.
I must admit that baseball doesn’t do much for me, besides
putting me to sleep. The cause is surely tied to upbringing. A love
of baseball — like a love of music, reading and religion — is
probably best instilled while young. In my youth football was the
sport of choice for most of us, along with chasing girls and
smoking whatever weeds happened to be found growing along the local
railroad tracks. I never saw a pro game until my mid-30s, or at
least one that can be remembered.
As the years began to collect, however, the attraction of
baseball became clearer, and so I tried to develop an addiction in
the early 90s when the Colorado Rockies were born. True excitement
was in the air, thanks largely to the fact that Denver is a rabid
sports town. The Rockies played their first seasons at Mile High
Stadium, and all the games sold out, meaning you watched along with
75,000 or so fellow fans. Mass hysteria reigned and for casual
observers this was a good thing, as was the fact that the team’s
permanent digs, Coors Field, was something of a boom box. Balls
sailed into the stands with great regularity, keeping us helots in
a constant mood of excitement and celebration.
But for the more devoted baseball fans, the glories of the game
are clearly found elsewhere, or so it seems to a guessing outsider.
A devotee probably reaches a higher plane when finally discovering
the game is more about pitching than hitting. Similarly, a true fan
loves the game’s languid pace, which allows one to observe the
various small dramas taking place around the diamond and out in the
far stretches of the outfield. The subtle shifts of position —
advances, retreats, and sometimes the merest lean — reflect the
game’s precision. These subtleties also increase the sense of
anticipation, a quiet but steady winding of the spring. Release
comes when the batter connects, a small physical event that
unleashes an instantaneous flurry of reactions. Then back to
waiting. Scratching. Spitting seeds. Peering at the sun. Thinking
things over. Much like life itself.
This is quite different from football. For one thing, you can
see what baseball players actually look like while footballers are
hidden beneath their armor. The latter creates a sense of anonymity
and impersonality — only by their numbers do we know them — and,
to me at least, a sort of time warp. To this day I have an
ingrained feeling that the football players I watch on television
are older than myself, even though pros are half my age.
Football is, to be sure, a great fall sport: a feat of organized
violence undertaken in the dying season. While most of us love the
passing game, the heart of football is the brutal run through the
line of scrimmage and the ensuing pounding. The greatest games are
played in mud as a cold rain falls — perhaps with some heavy wet
snow mixed in. Football is a game of the earth.
Baseball, by contrast, is played by kids in caps starting in the
season of re-birth and stretching through the summer months.
Perhaps its greatest moment is when the ball is lofted high into
the great blue sky — rocketing away from the earth and
disappearing into the sun. Life being what it is, the ball falls
back to earth. But for just for a few seconds that’s the last thing
on your mind.
None of this is to say that everything related to baseball (and
its dowdy cousin, softball) is peace and light, as a recent story
in the Miami Herald
reminds us: “An executive with the Sports Authority sporting goods
chain was arrested Monday, accused of choking a 74-year-old umpire
unconscious at a Coconut Creek softball game, police said.” The
dispute followed a questionable call at second base and brings to
mind similar dramas familiar to any parent whose kids play any type
of ball. We had our share: The grandfather who cold-cocked a coach
after a football game, and an opposing lacrosse coach who ran down
one of our players, tackled him, and put him in a headlock. These
were sidelines-clearing events and, in the lacrosse coach’s case,
cause for disciplinary action. While one can hardly praise such
activity, they do make for interesting memories.
Our sons avoided baseball, though it was popular with some of
the neighborhood boys. One neighbor’s son played on a team whose
pitcher was known, according to this neighbor, to sometimes break
down and cry during games. That kid’s name was Dylan Klebold, who
would later participate in the Columbine High School slaughter.
Baseball doesn’t work its magic on everyone, but then again what
does? My interest dropped a year or so after leaving Colorado, and
died totally after the omnivorous Ted Turner bought several of the
Rockies’ better players in his quest for world domination. Yet in
these troubled times one more fully appreciates the peaceful arts
that bring comfort and respite to our unquiet minds. In a few days
the new season will begin, and Americans will fill the stands,
enjoy the sun, and only occasionally scan the sky for crop
dusters.
