The Joy of Baseball

My earliest memories of baseball begin with a red plastic bat shaped more like a pregnant watermelon than a tool for hitting balls. And, the sound it made when that hard plastic bat made contact with the over-sized, wiffle-like ball was more like a splish splat than the sharp crack of the wooden bat that one associates with major league hitting success. I loved that sound. Despite those oddities of equipment appearance and sound, the warmth of memories and good times most often feature a patient father who served as pitcher, outfielder, coach, manager, and when needed, cheerleader.

Although my dad made a gallant effort to instruct me in the essential, and finer points of the game, I never rose much further than a "B" level little leaguer. As a pitcher, I had a strong enough arm, and one that got noticed by the "A" level manager. But, it was at the plate that I lacked confidence. Like many kids at an early age, I wasn't sure enough of myself to know without a doubt that I could, indeed, just do it. No matter, the essence of taking the field with eight other similarly (un?) talented boys, whether for practice or a league game, remains to this day, one of the fondest memories of my childhood. And, truth be known, it wasn't the actual playing on those coarse, pebbly diamonds that produced my love of baseball. Rather, it was the preparation, the loading of our station wagon with bats, balls, gloves, helmets, and bases, that made my heart race with excitement.

Baseball had other meanings as I grew up. It became one of "our" activities. Dad and I shared other adventures like hunting, fishing, and camping, but baseball was special. It permeated many aspects of our lives. As a long suffering Phillies fan, my dad was accustomed to losing. Yet, I can only remember the joy and positive spin he put on the games despite often lopsided scores. And, when he couldn't take the losing any longer, he'd simply fall asleep in the comfortable chair cozily positioned in a corner of our living room, leaving me to decide whether to stick out another loss by myself, or to go outside and play.

Countless Sunday afternoons were spent sitting side-by-side in that living room watching yet another hapless effort out of the Phillies. Yet, despite living within a couple hours of Philadelphia, we seldom went to games. Not until I was older did I realize that my dad was simply protecting me from exposure to a crowd that could often become crass and unruly. There was an air of unrest and violence in Philadelphia that reflected the national angst of the 1960's, and which threatened to turn a peaceful day at the game into a stomach-churning front row seat for brawling.

I was twenty-seven when my dad passed away on a hot August morning. Standing by his bed as his life on this earth ebbed away, I didn't appreciate the passion for baseball that he had instilled in me. But, through the tears and heartache that threatened to flood my soul that morning, I felt a connection with him that had been faithfully attended-to during our life together. Maybe it was because of that kinship that I watched another Phillies game that afternoon, and knew he would have approved.

The "boys of summer" have taken on many appearances in my life. From the official team of little league boys in an adjacent town, to the back yard neighborhood boys (and girls) who came to play pick-up games at our house, to the professional boys of summer with names now etched in my mind, like Richie Ashburn, Bobby Wine, Chris Short, Dick Allen, Brooks and Frank Robinson, Willie McCovey and Mays, and Johnny Callison to name a few.

There is a mystique and aura surrounding the game of baseball that enriches those who follow the sport. Nothing is ever assured when teams take to the field. Maybe that's what makes it so enticing. This year, the boys of summer have another loyal fan. For the first time in her life, my wife has felt the call of the diamond, and it's not the one most women prize by having it placed on their finger, it's the one played on by grown-up boys. We've traveled to PNC Park in Pittsburgh and to Citizen's Bank Park in Philadelphia to watch the Phillies play. What great venues to see a baseball game. It's been the best of times.

I'm sure there are football purists and fanatics who find the same un-rivaled joy in that sport. Frankly, I've been known to watch and cheer for the Eagles as well. Maybe, however, it's having the love of my life sitting in much the same place as someone else I loved very much did years ago that has me casting my vote for baseball. Play Ball!