Baseball Blog

The summer has already afforded us an epic Wimbledon, an amazing US Open, and a bizarre Brett Favre episode. But all I have on my mind is baseball. Easy tiger, back in your seats it is not the 7th inning and you do not have to beat the traffic. We are still serving beer so let me paint a Norman Rockwell moment or maybe a Jackson Pollock moment just work with me.

Baseball was the first team sport played in the fields and dreams of this country dating back to the Civil War. Baseball was the only thing when I was a kid. Soccer was a sport on Channel 8. UCLA Bruin Basketball was on TV more than the Lakers. And the Rams were losing to the Minnesota Vikings for the 17th consecutive year in the snow. But the Dodgers had Sandy, 3-Dog, Walter, Tommy, Wes, Big Don, Maury and if you know one of those names, you know them all.

Each of my friends had a mitt and we had three bats between the seven of us. The mitts were leather and made in the US. The bats were all made of wood and from Louisville. We carried around three beat up old Rawlings baseballs. We walked two miles to the park and played 7 hours of over the line, five days a week in the summer. I had to be home before the street lights came up. No one worried when I did not always make it on time. No cell phones, no IM’ing, no sunscreen or Gatorade. We drank from the water fountain and peed behind the backstop. No one kept stats but I think Randy Carlson was the all-time Brand Park Homerun Leader. Larry Kennally announced more innings of nonsensical games than any living human. And although, I have a prestigious position today in the sports blogosphere, I was always a late pick on the second day of the draft most afternoons. The Seber’s are scrappy, just not particularly gifted.

My 12 year old hopes and dreams for baseball ended at age 11. I was disappointed for a few weeks and then I lived vicariously through the Dodgers and battled the bastards who victimized my beloved Boys of Summer. The champions of my youth became everlasting even with the McCourt’s now owning the team. I read that sports page like a history book only with more focus and attention.

The history and tradition of baseball are unparalleled in all of sports. There are statistics dating back to the 1870’s. Hits, runs, wins, losses, stories, legends and nicknames like no other sport. Shoeless Joe, Lefty, The Babe, The Iron Horse, Tinkers to Evers to Chance, are the names in history that I studied.

Baseball is a microcosm of life. The rules are complex; there is a lot of standing around and then suddenly “Boom” it is your moment to shine. Someone always has to make the last out in an inning, a game or the championship. Unlikely heroes emerge when all seems lost. Split second decisions are made that immediately affect outcomes and emotion. Hopes and fears, laughs and tears. In baseball, there is not a midfielder that is going to clear that ball that it is hit to you in right field, there is not a free safety to run down the play, there is no zone defense or West Coast offense. You either make the play or you do not, based on your efforts at that moment. And the score is always tallied.

Baseball is unique and special to our heritage as Americans. It is our sport and it is now played in almost as many countries as soccer. Those pesky Euros, still refuse to feel the call but our Latin amigos have not only felt the call, they are defecting, lying about their ages and making up 25% of the MLB Rosters. Baseball draws more fans than any other professional sport in America. Do not confuse TV viewing with attendance. Baseball can not compete with the NFL on your 52 feet of 1080 DPI heaven. Baseball competes at the turnstiles and the concession stands.

Baseball is deliberate and cerebral. Each pitch, each moment is executed with strategy and expectation. It can tax our attention on certain nights but it is game of subtleties. Moves on one side precipitate moves on the other. Plans are disguised and bluffs are made. It is a chess match with bats and balls and everyone has a uniform on. It is the only sport where the teammates spend so much time side by side during the game in the dug out. It is the only sport where the team with the ball can not score. It is the only sport where that team has to vacate the field so that they can try and score. It is the only sport where the managers and coaches have to dress like their players no matter how ugly those uniforms might be. And it is the only sport that truly reflects the struggles, history and persona of this nation.

Forget the steroids, the congressional hearings, labor strikes and prima donnas of the last twenty years. Baseball will never be as simple as it was in my youth. There is too much money at stake now. But underneath that high priced veneer, there is still the kernel that is the game of our youth. Search for the grace of a hit and run play. Teach relevant youth to learn how to play over the line. Stop and watch a Little League game when you chance upon it. Bring your mitt to the park and play catch with a friend. Travel back to a time of greater innocence and effort where we did very much with very little. It was a scrappier time. There were winners and someone has to lose but there was a lot less whining.

Baseball has no clock and my team can always win if they can keep scoring. Baseball always affords hope. Much like the American existence of the 1800’s that gave birth to baseball; we still always have that passion to keep the rally alive. Baseball is not just our national pastime, it is our legendary heritage. Since the beginning of this great country, normal people have stared down adversity and stepped up to the plate to achieve exceptional results. At times like these, we can still pound our mitts, swing our bats and make the plays. Americans never quit. Even with two outs in the bottom of the 9th, we will never run out of time. That is just how we roll….

“Since baseball time is only measured in outs, all you have to do is succeed utterly; Keep hitting, keep the rally alive and you have defeated time. You remain forever young.” Roger Angell