Pastimes Present:Baseball & Summers Past

Pastimes Present:Baseball & Summers Past

" The peace of the hills is about me and upon me, and the leisure of summer clouds, whose shadows I see slowly drifting across the face of the landscape, is mine." - John Burroughs, famed naturalist

Few can dream as we do, us baseball persons, who hearken back each and every WInter while the snow piles high up to the sash of windows for those of us living within the bosom of New England. Or some who live in the warmer climes, who took every chance they got to head to the diamond and play a game that few others could play - especially those of us whose trees were not palms but were bare hardwoods of the oak, ash or maple persuasion.

It was as if - for some of us - that our psyche went directly into hibernation the moment the third strike call of the last out of a pennant race came to the fore. For those of us whose teams were on the losing end, it was enough to concede defeat (always the most difficult aspect of the game, unless your favorite player got traded ... which was far worse in some cases.) Or God forbid, something even worse happened. Like as in your team packed its bags, left town for greener pastures.... victims of poor economics.

For an 11 year old, there were lots of things to worry about when it came to baseball, that game played on grass with an interior with a diamond shape and enhanced with base paths that were made of clay, stone, mud, crushed brick ... or whatever was available to the Town's Founding Fathers at the time. You can always tell if one town cares more about baseball versus the next by simply driving by and observing the freshness of paint on the dugouts and announcer's booths, the signs on the outfield fence shining with the kinds of porcelain signs that offer proof that the businesses of the town have pride in their identity -and it shows....

Atop of all these signs, you look to see if the powder that marks the lines are evident, the lines from home plate reaching outward tangentially. We seek orderliness in our world, you know, it is that important.

Some towns go all out, maintaining the surefire facade of bringing out every single sports venue possible: alongside football and soccer, girl's hockey and the like.

But we baseball people are in the know, for it is oft-stated that our game is America's game.

The National Pastime in other words.

Oh, you remember clearly enough your first home run in Little League. How you swung, smooth as silk, at a fair-to-middlin' fastball and launched that white orb of stitched cowhide up, Up, UP ... and over the fence!

Of course the result of all this was sheer pandemonium - for the fans of every stripe sitting in the freshly painted (green) bleachers behind you, behind that huge web of chain link fence.

As far as you were concerned, a mixture of awe dwelled so deep as to what you just did that two things happened simultaneously:

1) You forgot completely that confident - even cocky - home run trot you were to run, that trot that you practiced a million and one times, should that magic day arrive and

2) In front of your Mother, Father, various relatives, et al - you begin to burst forth with the most incredible Chinese Fire Drill anyone ever enacted on a baseball diamond -ever.

I know that is what I did, least-wise. By the time I heard enough encouragements from the stands (Run, you stupid idiot, RUN!) I indeed sprinted 'round the bases, faster'n Gump even, so stoked I was at this true moment of entering a sort of manhood that had eluded me for so long. Indeed, I ate my Wheaties that morning.

But time robs us of the tougher memories though, the ones that stick in your craw as you participate in JV and Varsity ball - the stuff that is best forgotten for the most part.

The time I hit a batter with a pitch four consecutive times in one game. Or when a pitch 'got away' from the delivery and after it foul tipped back, struck the catcher in the thumb, compound fracturing that thumb bone deep into the hand and out into the open.

Tough love.

And this game will do that to you as well, keep you honest along the way.

Time also allows that for awhile there, you'll be selected to play on various softball teams, like for your church or for the Legion say. And you will come face to face with the fact that hitting is kind of like a chore, only now the ball is nearly twice as big ... and arriving at home plate like ten times more slow.

This game makes you compromise, or otherwise it'll put you in your place too. If there is any doubt, watch an older player swing -fruitlessly- three times in succession and miss each time. A softball.

And after the game, you'll drink ice tea with the folks, maybe, or perhaps something a little stronger say. You are all in this together. Win some ... lose some.

Life is exactly like that.

Nowadays, you don't play for the church squad anymore, not since the triple hernia operation or the shoulder arthroscopic procedure. This game is great at telling you what your limits are.

And maybe now, you'll be like me, devoted to writing and reading about this game, its trivia, its promise - that is if the team you love has a decent shot at the post-season. We've all been there.

Oh, you've gone to the County Fair, sure enough, and they had a JUGGS gun with a baseball to throw and you clocked in at... 67 mph right then and there. "Chip off the old block", you say proudly. Then you remember too the 'chips' could be calcium floating in your glenohumeral joint, and with chagrin you put your third ball down along with your playing aspirations aside.

This game tells you to say 'when'.

But your love for this game is never-ending. For an aging athlete, the bittersweet feeling is one of contrition, where you acknowledge that old records fall, and if so, you haven't. Its a test of spirits, is what it is.

And each summer, you'll be at the ballpark, watching the guys run sprints in the outfield, take batting practice and do all the other things in preparation for being a member of The Show.

Suddenly, seated in the bleachers, you swear you just caught a whiff of mink oil for the leather gloves you'd massage into your mitt each and every April of the year. Or you'll be in a hardware store and see the exact same kind of shoe black that you'd slipped under your eyes on sunny days, emulating your favorite players.

And the grass of Fenway gleams greener than any spacious lawn you've ever trod, the lights gleam brighter than any spot you've played under, the roars louder and more resonant than anything you've ever heard and with a scoreboard larger than any you've ever seen, the memories of yesteryear meld into the moment, and the undeniable feeling holds true to your deepest, innate heart as you realize one vital fact...

You are home ...