4.06.2004
Rites of Spring: Remembering Baseball
Ah yes, springtime. Even in the desert, the smell of freshly cut grass makes one begin to think of ash wood bats, broken-in leather gloves, hotdogs, beer, and all the sights and sounds of baseball.
I remember it like it was yesterday. It was 1981, my father took me by train from Albany NY to the true Shrine of Baseball. No, not Cooperstown, that would happen a few years later. This day, we went to the heart of the Bronx, and I got my first glimpse of Yankee Stadium. Just thinking about that day still gives me goose bumps. Walking out into the open air just outside the canopy and seeing the site of so many great moments in baseball, for an 11-year old, I thought my life was now complete. Not only did I get to see "The House that Ruth Built," I also watched the Yankees pounce all over Kansas City.
For me, going to Yankee Stadium was like being in the presence of all the greatest players who ever wore the pinstripes. Few teams in the history of baseball have the enviable record of the "Bronx Bombers." That was the very first time I had ever been to a major league baseball game, and even after all these years, it is still indelibly etched into my psyche.
What is it about baseball? I wish I knew. In today's high-speed world, most people don't have the patience for "America's Past-time." People seem to crave more action; they gravitate towards more "physical" sports. Baseball still holds a spell over me. Maybe it is because my father and stepfather grew up during the "glory years" of baseball, when players were not paid outrageous sums of money, they played because they truly loved the game. Baseball games were a part of the American psyche during the 20th Century. They took up the better part of an afternoon, more if there was a double-header. A game took as long as it took, and people liked it that way. We stopped to enjoy the moment a little more then. Baseball players were the heroes of hard-working Americans; it remains "our sport."
From time-to-time, I catch specials on HBO on the history of baseball. There's the When it was a Game series, and then there are specials that focus in on one specific team. Just today I saw Curse of the Bambino, about the Boston Red Sox and over 70 years of heartbreak over a team that can't quite seem to get over the legacy of having traded Babe Ruth to the Yankees all those years ago. Yet the fans come out of hibernation every spring with a renewed sense of hope and vigor that: ".... Maybe, just maybe, this year will be the year. A part of me cheers for their loyalty. It is the same loyalty towards the underdog that helped form this nation, and certainly New England was an important part of our collective heritage. That spirit is alive and well in the hearts and minds of Boston fans.
As I grew up, my family moved from Upstate New York to Pittsburgh PA, now we lived in a true "sports town." It was a Pittsburgh tradition for boys to skip school to attend the Pirate's spring opener every year (this trend got so bad, that the Pirates organization started rescheduling their openers so they started in the evenings). "The boys" and me would go and watch "The Bucs" play, usually they lost, but we didn't care. We went because it was part of the rites of spring that must be observed. It was one of the few male-bonding rituals that I couldn't ignore, because it was in my blood.
I remember watching Bull Durham not long after I finished Navy boot camp. Movies on base were free for sailors, and I was desperately low on funds because I was contributing to my G.I. Bill, and only an E-2 at the time. I went to this movie with little in the way of expectations. It would not have been a movie I would have chosen to go to, but it was what was playing and beggars can't be choosers. What happy coincidence that this move was playing; I fell in love with the movie, and it renewed my love for the game.
The more I watched, the more I realized how important baseball was to people. It is more than just a game; it is a passion, a thrill, something that links us to our past with an undeniable sense of hope and renewal. It is a modern rite of spring. Just as the plants and animals come to life once more, we too come to life. Every year, the slate is wiped clean: "our team" has another chance. They might go all the way. Baseball isn't played with bone-crushing brute force. It isn't played with finesse and style. Baseball takes its own time. It cannot be rushed or hurried. It demands that anyone who watches slow down and make a deliberate choice to be entertained at its own speed.
More people seem to be unable to make the sacrifice baseball demands of them. They have too many pressures to be several places at once. Their cell phones, pagers, and PDA's are filled with appointments, To-Do's, important calls and meetings, all the trappings of a society that has given too much in the name of urgency and self-importance. We have forgotten the magic of a Sunday afternoon spent cheering on our favorite teams. Now we can check our favorite team via the Internet in between other endeavors. It isn't that we don't have the time; we no longer make the time. Time makes us. That is the tragedy of baseball. It reminds us of the simpler things in life, but we no longer wish to be reminded. We have trouble savoring the moments because we are already looking forward, planning, thinking; waiting impatiently for it to arrive. Like so many things in life, Baseball is about the journey, not the destination. If we forget how to enjoy baseball, we have forgotten how to enjoy what it means to be Americans. That would be tragedy beyond words.
When it was a Game Triple Play
© 2004, J.S.Brown
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I remember it like it was yesterday. It was 1981, my father took me by train from Albany NY to the true Shrine of Baseball. No, not Cooperstown, that would happen a few years later. This day, we went to the heart of the Bronx, and I got my first glimpse of Yankee Stadium. Just thinking about that day still gives me goose bumps. Walking out into the open air just outside the canopy and seeing the site of so many great moments in baseball, for an 11-year old, I thought my life was now complete. Not only did I get to see "The House that Ruth Built," I also watched the Yankees pounce all over Kansas City.
For me, going to Yankee Stadium was like being in the presence of all the greatest players who ever wore the pinstripes. Few teams in the history of baseball have the enviable record of the "Bronx Bombers." That was the very first time I had ever been to a major league baseball game, and even after all these years, it is still indelibly etched into my psyche.
What is it about baseball? I wish I knew. In today's high-speed world, most people don't have the patience for "America's Past-time." People seem to crave more action; they gravitate towards more "physical" sports. Baseball still holds a spell over me. Maybe it is because my father and stepfather grew up during the "glory years" of baseball, when players were not paid outrageous sums of money, they played because they truly loved the game. Baseball games were a part of the American psyche during the 20th Century. They took up the better part of an afternoon, more if there was a double-header. A game took as long as it took, and people liked it that way. We stopped to enjoy the moment a little more then. Baseball players were the heroes of hard-working Americans; it remains "our sport."
From time-to-time, I catch specials on HBO on the history of baseball. There's the When it was a Game series, and then there are specials that focus in on one specific team. Just today I saw Curse of the Bambino, about the Boston Red Sox and over 70 years of heartbreak over a team that can't quite seem to get over the legacy of having traded Babe Ruth to the Yankees all those years ago. Yet the fans come out of hibernation every spring with a renewed sense of hope and vigor that: ".... Maybe, just maybe, this year will be the year. A part of me cheers for their loyalty. It is the same loyalty towards the underdog that helped form this nation, and certainly New England was an important part of our collective heritage. That spirit is alive and well in the hearts and minds of Boston fans.
As I grew up, my family moved from Upstate New York to Pittsburgh PA, now we lived in a true "sports town." It was a Pittsburgh tradition for boys to skip school to attend the Pirate's spring opener every year (this trend got so bad, that the Pirates organization started rescheduling their openers so they started in the evenings). "The boys" and me would go and watch "The Bucs" play, usually they lost, but we didn't care. We went because it was part of the rites of spring that must be observed. It was one of the few male-bonding rituals that I couldn't ignore, because it was in my blood.
I remember watching Bull Durham not long after I finished Navy boot camp. Movies on base were free for sailors, and I was desperately low on funds because I was contributing to my G.I. Bill, and only an E-2 at the time. I went to this movie with little in the way of expectations. It would not have been a movie I would have chosen to go to, but it was what was playing and beggars can't be choosers. What happy coincidence that this move was playing; I fell in love with the movie, and it renewed my love for the game.
The more I watched, the more I realized how important baseball was to people. It is more than just a game; it is a passion, a thrill, something that links us to our past with an undeniable sense of hope and renewal. It is a modern rite of spring. Just as the plants and animals come to life once more, we too come to life. Every year, the slate is wiped clean: "our team" has another chance. They might go all the way. Baseball isn't played with bone-crushing brute force. It isn't played with finesse and style. Baseball takes its own time. It cannot be rushed or hurried. It demands that anyone who watches slow down and make a deliberate choice to be entertained at its own speed.
More people seem to be unable to make the sacrifice baseball demands of them. They have too many pressures to be several places at once. Their cell phones, pagers, and PDA's are filled with appointments, To-Do's, important calls and meetings, all the trappings of a society that has given too much in the name of urgency and self-importance. We have forgotten the magic of a Sunday afternoon spent cheering on our favorite teams. Now we can check our favorite team via the Internet in between other endeavors. It isn't that we don't have the time; we no longer make the time. Time makes us. That is the tragedy of baseball. It reminds us of the simpler things in life, but we no longer wish to be reminded. We have trouble savoring the moments because we are already looking forward, planning, thinking; waiting impatiently for it to arrive. Like so many things in life, Baseball is about the journey, not the destination. If we forget how to enjoy baseball, we have forgotten how to enjoy what it means to be Americans. That would be tragedy beyond words.
When it was a Game Triple Play
TANSTAAFL!
© 2004, J.S.Brown
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