At last, baseball is here
In March, I traveled to the University of North Carolina with six of my former college baseball teammates to watch our alma mater take on the Tar Heel nine in a three-game set. Being with my long-standing friends was a treat, and reminded me of the special nature of baseball, America’s Game, especially in the early spring.
Opening Day announces the beginning of another year of professional baseball. Memories of Ray Winder Field fill my head; anticipation of another summer watching the local team play in Dickey-Stephens Park brings warmth to my heart and soul. What is it about the game that evokes so much feeling?
In many parts of our country, minor league baseball is “life its own self.” We see young men working hard to achieve success in an endeavor they love, while knowing that their odds of making the major leagues are slim. Camaraderie is evident in the dugouts and in the stands. We experience great periods of idle time followed by bursts of exciting action. And every now and then, something unusual occurs such as when three Travelers pitchers teamed up to throw a no-hitter on Sept. 2, 2021. My wife and I were in attendance that evening. Trivial or profound, the memory endures.
Fun is the name of the game and seems always to be in the air. Just make note of the nicknames and insignias. Our Arkansas Travelers are part of literary history. The Amarillo Sod Poodles remind us of the colloquial and colorful language of Texas’ Panhandle. Where else would a prairie dog be likened to a cute pet?
The former Lowell (Mass.) Spinners were named for a vital implement used in the mills of a city that holds the distinction of being a Queen of America’s Industrial Revolution. The Frisco (Texas) Roughriders sport innumerable symbols, including a fantastically bespectacled Teddy Roosevelt. The Salt Lake Bees, or Abejas as they are also called in that heavily Latino city, offer their fans caps adorned by the appropriate creature. Baseball brings playfulness to the days of summer.
Philosophy and wisdom are important elements of America’s Game. New York Yankee Hall of Famer Yogi Berra has often been considered a simple man. His aphorism that “it ain’t over ’til it’s over” may be amusing to some, but if we unpack the phrase, we just may find something to think about. We might try “Don’t give up” or “Keep trying every minute you’re alive.” Yogi may have been “dumb like a fox.” After all, only one perfect game has been tossed in World Series history, that by Don Larsen of the Yankees in
1956. Larsen’s catcher called every pitch that afternoon, and Larsen chose not to shake him off, even once. The catcher that day was Yogi himself.
Gerald V. Hern, sports editor of the now-defunct Boston Post, penned the following words in his poem of 1948:
First, we’ll use Spahn. Then we’ll use Sain. Then an off day, followed by rain.
That year, the Boston Braves had an excellent everyday team, but a limited pitching staff. The team’s success depended, in part, on an unfillable aspiration—a rain-out and therefore a reprieve. This seems central to the baseball fan’s very being, hoping for things to go our way, even if it means the intervention of a natural occurrence. Only farmers and baseball aficionadoes would wish for the skies to open to save the day and the season.
Roger Angell, greatest of all baseball writers, wrote many an immortal sentence, among them:
“The best defense against partisanship is expertise” and “My favorite urban flower, the baseball box score.”
Angell wrote of baseball as the Elysian Fields, the final resting place of the souls of the heroic and virtuous individuals of ancient Greek religion and mythology. To describe baseball in such terms underscores why we love the game so much. This part of life transports us to places both fanciful and serious. Certainly, our heroes occasionally reveal their metaphorical Achilles heels. Reading the recently released book about a Cincinnati Reds legend, “Charlie Hustle: The Rise and Fall of Pete Rose,” reminds me of why we must always remember that those we adore and admire have their frailties, just like the ancients, and very much like us. Eternal verities are simply true. Baseball is filled with redundancies, too.
The timeless qualities of baseball can be so reassuring. The game is measured by innings and outs, not by the clock. The Fenway Frank at Boston’s legendary Fenway Park seems as important as is winning and losing a game. Never mind that locals and visitors alike all rise to sing heartily Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” during the seventh inning stretch there. Traditions abound and lend meaning to every outing. Friends can be rivals, and rivals can be friends. One might say that at the ball park, we’re one huge “team of rivals.”
On many Wednesdays, Dickey-Stephens Park is home to “Dog Days.” Families and their canine pets enjoy a night at the game together. This, too, may make a statement about the meaning of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Certainly, it’s about the competition, but it’s even more about community and “life as it should be.” Work, enjoyment, and the game are tied together, and bring us together.
So, “Play Ball” it is, a time to set aside serious things, to make room for a change of pace, to breathe deeply and slowly, to observe the nuances of the double play and sacrifice bunts. Baseball represents the chance to go back in time and experience the present all at once. The rhythms of the game are lyrical.
Even as I observe the virtuosity of the Los Angeles Dodgers’ Shohei Ohtani or the Texas Rangers’ Cory Seager, my head is filled with images of the Babe, Stan the Man, the Say Hey Kid, Larrupin’ Lou, the Splendid Splinter, Big Papi, Jackie Robinson, and many more. Time stands still. Life is good.