America’s Game

Baseball has always been my favorite sport. Even though professional football has far surpassed baseball in attendance and viewers in recent years, baseball will never lose it’s title of “America’s Game. At least not in my world.

As a game, baseball has a ridiculous set of arbitrary rules, coupled with a complexity and intricacy that would make any double speaking diplomat or attorney proud. The Official Baseball Rules devotes no less than 7 pages to the infield fly rule alone. As a sport, it is horrible exercise. While some defensive positions require constant Herculean efforts, others spend the majority of time standing or shuffling their feet. On offense, players only get a handful of opportunities to bat, an activity which requires unnatural bodily actions. Watching the slow moving game requires the patience of Job, with long pauses between pitches, batters and innings. Not to mention a “7th Inning Stretch”.

Yet, I found that all of the above atrocities made the game a wonderful vehicle for coaching young players and teaching concepts of both individual confidence and excellence, and teamwork and sportsmanship.

Growing up in rural CT, I played Little League, starting at age 7, though kids today start much earlier with T-Ball and such. Mom and Dad had to drive me over 30 minutes to get to practices and even further for games. I wasn’t very good; mostly consigned to right or center field, where I had few opportunities for mistakes. My batting average was….. not good. But, I loved being out there with the other boys, chanting “batter, batter, batter. Hey batter” in unison and cheering each other on. The smell of the grass and the rubbed leather of my glove were like sweet perfume. The sound of the wooden bat smacking the leather ball was music to my ears. (Metal bats – not so much). Thus began my love affair with the game.

Off the field, there was the constant talk of the last game or of what was happening in the major leagues. All spoken of strictly within the brotherhood of “baseball guys”. Of particular conversational merit was the ongoing debate over baseball heroes. Mine was Mickey Mantle. Even his name was a thrill to say. When I was 10, we all followed his quest for the home run record with utmost intensity. There was a certain faction of our crowd devoted to the great Ted Williams, which resulted in at least one schoolyard melee. I grew up half way between Boston and NY, so my friends were equally split as “fans”. I was never a “fan” of either team, but admired those who played the game well. Back then, the World Series was our total focus during the first days of October, as we huddled around whoever had a transistor radio.

I gave up playing baseball when we moved to Florida, in exchange for a blossoming interest in girls, and remained apart from the game for many years. When my two boys were growing up, I got back into the game as a coach. I started coaching from the start with “T-Ball”, so named because the batter hits from a “tee” which holds the ball at shoulder level right in front of him (or her). The game is a good natured and often hysterical introduction to the national sport. While no official score is kept, I guarantee that every kid can tell you how many runs were scored. Everybody bats and plays at each position – wonderfully democratic.

After that, the game only got increasingly serious and less fun. I continued to coach, despite hearing flak from non-coaching parents who wanted their child to play more or at a different position. In fairness, I was perhaps overly democratic about the game, insisting that everyone get a chance to play, even if it meant a lower score for the team. My coaching "claim to fame" came from building a home-made pitching device, in an effort to save my fading rotator cuff. While not the best game from a physical/exercise view, I found the slow pace and frequent lulls in action a wonderful vehicle for teaching baseball and, by extension, life.

My son Dawson was an amazing player, seriously the best I ever coached. He had natural talent at bat, and at his shortstop position would move toward the ball even before it was hit, making the impossible catch look easy. Perhaps more importantly, his sportsmanship was legendary. He cheered his teammates when they did well and consoled them when they made errors. As Dorinda and I grew apart, the soft green fields of dreams, the smell of leather gloves and baseball itself, provided a warm solace and refuge. Eventually, the pressures from parents and the focus on winning at any cost, coupled with a bad rotator cuff from pitching practices, caused me to exit the game once again.

Every so often, the love affair was rekindled by the many excellent baseball themed movies. Field of Dreams tops my list, followed by Bull Durham, The Natural and the perennial tear-jerker – The Sandlot. And who can forget the hilarious scene in Ridiculous Six where Doubleday explains his new game?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=whVYz1Z3n6Y

Or the lump-in-throat They Will Come speech from Field of Dreams?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6U1p0hehtg

My cousin George created quite an entertaining baseball stir when he wrote a spoof article about a new pitcher who could throw at an un-hittable 125mph. Outraged readers apparently failed to note the issue’s April 1^st date and cancelled subscriptions in droves. His subsequent novel “The Curious Case of Sidd Finch” only added fuel to the fire.

Though I still hold America’s Game dear to my heart, I don’t follow professional baseball at all. I simply don’t fathom the fan mentality. (But, that’s an issue for another day). Though, I do enjoy watching from time to time, just to marvel at how well pro players play the game.

Still, the smell of leather, any leather, or the scent of freshly cut grass or the glimpse of a baseball diamond fills me with joyful memories.