Baseball

With the start of the baseball season a couple of weeks ago and our maiden voyage into youth baseball this spring, I recalled this essay I penned 2 years ago this summer. My perspective has changed only a little now that Anna Clair and Levi are playing but it is still about the fun. I know that it looks like Marty and Joe will both be gone soon; how things change. I hope you enjoy the post.

The Game on the Sandlot

I used to hear the old men talk about their days on the sandlot. They spoke of the anticipation of endless summer days playing baseball. They didn’t need 18 guys to play; they could field 2 teams with only 4. They styled their game from the one their heroes played: Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, Joe Dimaggio, Robin Roberts, Hank Aaron. There is something about baseball that gets inside of the young boy who will let it. It takes root and creates a special place deep inside. This is true of any era; for me it was Johnny Bench, Pete Rose, and the rest of the Big Red Machine. The result is a lifelong fascination and now I, as one of the “old men” find myself recalling my own days on the sandlot.
In a day when many young boys would rather watch TV or sit in front of computer animated games, it was refreshing to hear the ping of the aluminum bat from the yard behind our house. I, as the “old man” sat on the patio with my eyes closed just listening to the sounds, losing myself in nostalgia. It was as if Mikey, Tommy, Eddie, John, Scott, Kenny, and me had made a triumphant return to childhood.
It was a beautiful day for baseball. A deep azure sky spotted with a few wispy clouds was overhead. The sounds of the airplane engine’s roar and the distant train whistle did not interfere. A slight breeze offered a welcome relief from the afternoon sunshine. A certain familiarity was present: “He was out of the baseline!” “No I wasn’t!” “Stay on base, he’s holding the ball!” “I should have dove and got him out.” “What’s the count blue?” “Ghost runner on third.”
I am brought back to the year 2005 by the ring tone on one of the boys’ cell phones. The game was halted. In my day someone’s sister showed up with a message from Mom that it was time to eat dinner; now they just call on the cell phone. I don’t want to complain too much because, hey, they are still playing the game of baseball on the sandlot. It’s a far cry from the business-driven Big Leagues. For these young boys it’s still a game. I don’t watch as many games or listen to Marty and Steve call the Reds game as often (Joe has since retired), but I must say the seed planted 30 years ago is still inside and I plan on planting it in my 3-year old son. I purchased him his first real baseball glove this week, a black leather one just like mine. “I love my new mitten Daddy.” He doesn’t always catch the ball and it doesn’t always go exactly where he throws it. He doesn’t always hit it either; but he is learning it’s more about the fun to be had with 2 people in the backyard with a baseball. I think I’ll go over to the sandlot behind the house and water those seeds. I’ll tell them to keep playing the game and to never forget it’s more about the fun. I’ll tell them that 30 years from now, all they will be able to remember is the fun.