I Love Baseball

For as long as I can remember baseball has been a big part of my life with some of my most vivid memories centered around America's past time.  Summers at my Grandparents, floating in their pool with the radio blaring the Giants game for my dad and grandpa while they played cut-throat cribbage in the shade.  In fact, anytime I hear baseball on the radio I can smell the chlorine and eucalyptus combinations of those Northern California summer afternoons--long dwindly days pushed along with the voices of Lon Simmons and Russ Hodges doing the play-by-play, the crowd at Candlestick a comfortable, warm droning buzz in the background.  These afternoons were punctuated by loud, happy whoops from inside the house--the men exlclaiming over some play from either the board or the field.  Happiness.

A few years later I would start stealing into my brother's room to grab two books in particular--one on Satchel Paige whose name I cannot recall.  The other, a book called "Catcher with a Glass Arm" by Foster Caddell.  I would read and re-read these books again and again.   One a history of a man who played baseball for about 50 years: 22 seasons alone in the Negro Leagues before getting to the "bigs" in 1948 with the Cleveland Indians.  But what I remember most is not his move to the big leagues, but rather the stories of his time in the Negro Leagues, especially with the Kansas City Monarchs.  It felt simple and real--a combination of the comraderie of the team and the art of baseball--a perfect combination in my 10- or 12-year old mind.

With the Caddel book, it was about a boy who had all of the skills, but none of the confidence...always worried about what other people would say if he messed up.  I knew that feeling to the bone. Where I lived, there wasn't a 'girls' or 'boys' program...just a few of us girls who played on the boys team.  I don't know if the other girls felt like I did, but on taking the field every time it was always with the thought of 'prove yourself', 'don't mess up'.  That was in my head--what was going on around me was what I saw in the Paige book:  fun and, for us, a messy art.  And looking back, when I remembered to get out of my head and just 'be there' on the field, it was--and was always to be--some of the best moments of my life.

Today with my son playing ball for the first time in his life I find these feelings about baseball are so visceral and close to the surface.  The love of watching the movement of baseball--entire teams in a choreographed dance to the call of the ball.  The pure beauty of a double play or a smooth pick off--or at this age, the beauty of an attempted double play.  The joy of little boys and grown men dancing the same exact steps when their teammate hits a home run.  Of listening to them chatter in the dugout, sometimes about the game, most of the time not.  Of standing and yelling, "Go, go, go", only to realize that his coach remembered (thank goodness) that my son is a pretty methodical base runner and maybe it's not a good idea for him to steal home right now.  But still wanting him to know that split-second rush of freedom and power combined--regardless of the end result. 

Of the corndogs and RedWhips from the concession stand.  Of the arm around his shoulders walking to the car.  Of listening to him tell his Grandpa about a very different game than the one I just watched. Of letting him stay up late to play a quick game of cribbage with me, rehashing the game and giving him the advice he doesn't want to hear from his mother in front of the boys (Dude! You are choking up too far on the bat!). 

And then, finally, watching him crawl into bed (take those disgusting baseball socks off!) to read or re-read his version of 'my' baseball books:  The "Aurora County All-Stars" by Deborah Wiles; "Don't Look Back" by Mark Ribowski (on Satchel Paige) or Michael Chabon's "Summerland."

And that is when I love baseball the most.  Seeing/remembering a dusty/tired body in a bed with a book, reliving the moments that just were, and dreaming of those moments that will be, on the field, with friends, the day dwindling away.  Happiness.