For Love of the Game
The contrast of red and green brings to mind Christmas. And even though it's only mid-October, St. Louis seems to be wrapped in a holiday atmosphere. The fans' excitement reaches a fevered pitch on a 3-2 count, so loud that the announcers have to scream to be heard over the cacophony echoing in one of the game's last 1960's-era stadiums. The crack of the bat, seemingly stronger in the crisp autumn air; a long drive to dead-center that finds its way by luck or fate into the homemade mitt of cupped hands. The goosebumps rise on my arms and all of my being tingles with the energy of post-season baseball. I love this game.
Like flat feet and curly hair, love of the game is embedded in my DNA. My earliest memories are of my grandpap pitching to me or playing catch in the yard, listening to games on the radio, making the special trip to see a real game live and in person. And though I never developed any talent for baseball (I can't catch and, the way I run, I need a double just to chug into first base), part of my soul slinks away into a corner and begins to hibernate every October. I lose my focus, I find myself more annoyed and depressed. The meaning of life evades me and I stumble through the world each day, counting the weeks until spring training.
"Lame," you'd say, and maybe that's true. I'll be the first to admit that other things in life should be more important to me. I should be trying to meet a nice young man and settle down. I should be living it up, partying like it's 1999. But on any given evening during the summer, you'll find me wearing headphones, listening to my perennial-losing team take on opponents they have no chance of defeating. Here's the thing, though: on any given night, they might win. And that's what makes baseball so amazing.
Being a baseball girl in a football town, I'm always asked why I insist on following my team. The truth is that itÂ’s the hope of baseball that keeps me going. It's that fact that on a random Tuesday in April or June, bats, gloves and base-running will harmonize in a symphony of absolute baseball perfection. Down 3-0 in the bottom of the ninth inning, the team will somehow load the bases for the power hitter who steps to the plate, stares down the pitcher and launches a 0-2 fastball into right field. Despite their professionalism, the team mauls the hitter, the hero, as he crosses the plate. In that moment, they're playing the game--the money, the fame, are all forgotten. It's America's Pastime, a sport that according to W.P. Kinsella, has been "the one constant through the years...It's a living part of history, like calico dresses, stone crockery, and threshing crews eating at outdoor tables. It continually reminds us of what once was."
Maybe that's what I love about it, the tradition that accompanies each slider, each stand-up double. To know that for generations people throughout the nation, from greats like Ruth down to kids on sandlots, have picked up a bat, felt the grain of the wood in their hands, played until it was too dark to see the ball. Fans have rejoiced at miraculous wins or cried late on a school night when their team dropped the NLCS in the bottom of the ninth on a bum throw from a would-be champion left fielder. The partners change, but the dance is the same year after year. Like an old friend, it's there to welcome the spring and walk you through the summer. That dependability--year after year--is one of the things that makes baseball so lovable.
In my worst moments in life, I've buried myself in baseball. To forget pain or heartbreak, to ease fear and panic, I've memorized statistics or taken refuge in the beautiful simplicity of a no-hitter. Regardless of whatever happened to me, if it was sometime between April and October, I could always count on baseball. People might hurt me, life might let me down, but somewhere a pitcher would take to the mound, throw the opening pitch and the game would give me solace. Maybe in that way it's like a religion, something to believe in when the rest of the world threatens to destroy you.
But above all, baseball unites people. It's the only thing I know that can get my grandpap, aunt and I in the same building without annoying each other. It's one of the few things my mom, dad and I all agree on watching with little deliberation. "Is there a game on tonight?" Dad will ask. When there's not, we search in vain for something else on television. At 81-years-old, my grandpap still watches every game and calls me to rehash the good and bad the matchup had to offer. It keeps my family together.
Now that the season is almost over, I don't know what I'll do with myself. Maybe write more, maybe spend more time at the gym. No matter how I attempt to compensate, though, baseball will be missing until catchers and pitchers report to spring training in late February. And there's nothing I can do about that except wait until next year. The Cards might be the team to beat now, but who knows what will happen when snowflakes are replaced with sunshine in 2005? It's that question, more than anything, that keeps me coming back for more.
Like flat feet and curly hair, love of the game is embedded in my DNA. My earliest memories are of my grandpap pitching to me or playing catch in the yard, listening to games on the radio, making the special trip to see a real game live and in person. And though I never developed any talent for baseball (I can't catch and, the way I run, I need a double just to chug into first base), part of my soul slinks away into a corner and begins to hibernate every October. I lose my focus, I find myself more annoyed and depressed. The meaning of life evades me and I stumble through the world each day, counting the weeks until spring training.
"Lame," you'd say, and maybe that's true. I'll be the first to admit that other things in life should be more important to me. I should be trying to meet a nice young man and settle down. I should be living it up, partying like it's 1999. But on any given evening during the summer, you'll find me wearing headphones, listening to my perennial-losing team take on opponents they have no chance of defeating. Here's the thing, though: on any given night, they might win. And that's what makes baseball so amazing.
Being a baseball girl in a football town, I'm always asked why I insist on following my team. The truth is that itÂ’s the hope of baseball that keeps me going. It's that fact that on a random Tuesday in April or June, bats, gloves and base-running will harmonize in a symphony of absolute baseball perfection. Down 3-0 in the bottom of the ninth inning, the team will somehow load the bases for the power hitter who steps to the plate, stares down the pitcher and launches a 0-2 fastball into right field. Despite their professionalism, the team mauls the hitter, the hero, as he crosses the plate. In that moment, they're playing the game--the money, the fame, are all forgotten. It's America's Pastime, a sport that according to W.P. Kinsella, has been "the one constant through the years...It's a living part of history, like calico dresses, stone crockery, and threshing crews eating at outdoor tables. It continually reminds us of what once was."
Maybe that's what I love about it, the tradition that accompanies each slider, each stand-up double. To know that for generations people throughout the nation, from greats like Ruth down to kids on sandlots, have picked up a bat, felt the grain of the wood in their hands, played until it was too dark to see the ball. Fans have rejoiced at miraculous wins or cried late on a school night when their team dropped the NLCS in the bottom of the ninth on a bum throw from a would-be champion left fielder. The partners change, but the dance is the same year after year. Like an old friend, it's there to welcome the spring and walk you through the summer. That dependability--year after year--is one of the things that makes baseball so lovable.
In my worst moments in life, I've buried myself in baseball. To forget pain or heartbreak, to ease fear and panic, I've memorized statistics or taken refuge in the beautiful simplicity of a no-hitter. Regardless of whatever happened to me, if it was sometime between April and October, I could always count on baseball. People might hurt me, life might let me down, but somewhere a pitcher would take to the mound, throw the opening pitch and the game would give me solace. Maybe in that way it's like a religion, something to believe in when the rest of the world threatens to destroy you.
But above all, baseball unites people. It's the only thing I know that can get my grandpap, aunt and I in the same building without annoying each other. It's one of the few things my mom, dad and I all agree on watching with little deliberation. "Is there a game on tonight?" Dad will ask. When there's not, we search in vain for something else on television. At 81-years-old, my grandpap still watches every game and calls me to rehash the good and bad the matchup had to offer. It keeps my family together.
Now that the season is almost over, I don't know what I'll do with myself. Maybe write more, maybe spend more time at the gym. No matter how I attempt to compensate, though, baseball will be missing until catchers and pitchers report to spring training in late February. And there's nothing I can do about that except wait until next year. The Cards might be the team to beat now, but who knows what will happen when snowflakes are replaced with sunshine in 2005? It's that question, more than anything, that keeps me coming back for more.
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