It’s Just a Game

After the Bulldogs finally closed it out against Vanderbilt in the very wee hours of a Monday morning, my first instinct was to run from the living room back to the bedroom and tell Jim; he would have likely had to lie down before it ended, leaving me to stay awake, or somewhat awake, to cheer them on. How he would be enjoying this gritty team!

Americans love our sports. Yes, I know, professional athletes are paid ridiculous sums of money. On that subject, I am a free market capitalist. If the revenues are there, the franchises can negotiate whatever they like with them. I harbor no jealousy or resentment. But this isn’t about that. Sports, like any other human activity, can became idolatrous, but this isn’t about that, either. It is about baseball, or the love of it.

Many, from George Will to Charles Krauthammer in this present age have written eloquently on the subject. I can write only of its place in the life of my little family. I was told that my dad was a heck of a baseball player and that he was actually scouted before WWII got in the way, so I believe baseball is in my genetic code. As a teen living on a mountain ridge in East Tennessee, I started listening to Yankees broadcasts on my little but powerful radio (a prized possession for kids in my day). I immediately fell in love with the team, the history, and the way baseball was interwoven in the fabric of American life through generations. I am not sure it can still be called “The National Past Time” (a shame); the pageantry and glitz of football seems to dominate now. Football is fun….who doesn’t like very big guys giving each other multiple concussions and throwing impossible  passes miles long ? It has, after all, given us the Super Bowl. Of course, we all love a 3 pointer at the buzzer, and the NBA playoffs which last about as long as a pregnancy.

I once had a friend tell me that she just couldn’t like baseball, because it “moves too slowly and nothing happens.” Even though I laughed, I could understand her thinking, no matter how wrong I thought she was. Baseball is a game which moves slowly and happens very quickly. There may actually be crying in baseball, but there can be no impatience. The pitcher is going to take as long as he takes to choose a pitch and throw it, unless the umpire reminds him that he is taking too much time. We once watched a UCLA pitcher work so agonizingly slowly that I was sure we would all be dead and mummified in our seats before an inning ended. But the skills necessary to baseball…throwing, catching, hitting, are among the hardest in athletics to learn and master. We started our kids early. Jim bought a cloth ball and would toss it to Olivia in her infant seat. At first, of course, she would just let it hit her in the chest with no response but a slightly surprised look. Gradually, she began kicking her legs in anticipation and trying to grab the ball with her hands. They had many fun games of catch that way. It was the same with Pat.  Pat’s large muscle coordination was obvious from toddler-hood. He was good. I spent many hours in the yard rolling ground balls to him as he stretched and dove into the prickly holly bushes. Good times.

Jim coached in our town’s little league program for years. I remember every one of the guys he had on his teams. His temperament was, I think, perfect for the job. He was very competitive, but had endless patience in teaching the fundamentals of the game, and believed in practice, practice, practice. His goal was to help these young guys be the best they could be at baseball. Does that seem a narrow, rather superficial ambition? It wasn’t, because although playing the sport and winning some games was the immediate task at hand, it is not just a cliche’ to say that baseball is , or can be, analogous to life. Baseball is hard. Because games are longer than many other sporting events, it requires mental sharpness and perseverance. Sometimes, as in life, it seems that you are just running around and around, tripping on basepads, getting whacked with foul balls, and striking out despite great effort to succeed. Sometimes, despite hard work, another player gets the start and maybe even does something spectacular. Statistically, baseball is a game of failure.  In life, if we base our worth solely on our performance, it can certainly seem that way.

One year, we put a very large glass “cider jug” in a corner of the living room. We told the kids that we would put our change in it, never empty it, and hope that the Dawgs would someday make it to the College World Series, at which time we would use the saved money. They made it that very year. I remember so vividly the whooping and dancing around in our little house, and shouts of joy when Jim smiled and said “Okay, let’s go to Omaha!” We counted the contents of the jug and lugged nearly $800 in coins to the bank.

We were fortunate to have friends in Omaha who provided us with a place to sleep. We bought only one thing each from the concession stand each game and ate Taco Bell on the way home every night to save money. Our week at Rosenblatt , from the first time walking into the gates to the last game we watched (after our Dawgs were eliminated) was and remains one of the happiest weeks in our family’s life. Our family never made it back, which is a regret, but that doesn’t diminish our fondness for that time.

Our kids literally grew up on the old first base bleachers at Dudy Noble Field.  Patrick would return from pestering the team in the dugout or bullpen, full of exciting information such as the guys’ nicknames for each other and their favorite game snacks. He picked up a couple of colorful words one year, but over the years the players were kind to our kids. A catcher from New Jersey shared Thanksgiving dinner with us and gave Pat a wooden bat which, at the time, was longer than he was. He still has it. Olivia’s first crush was a stocky, handsome blonde first baseman. We took our kids on Bulldog baseball road trips instead of Disney World. Oh, we always thought we would make it there, too, but when the choice had to be made, we chose baseball. I think these days they call Child Protective Services on parents for neglect if they do not take their children to Disney World.

So, in recent years, Jim and I both had serious back problems which made it virtually impossible to sit through games. This was a hard reality to accept. We were (I am) thankful for tv and the espn app. I am glad that, over the years, we were stuffed into  our seats with 12,000 or more screaming State fans to witness great sports successes and sometimes great collective disappointment, when we gathered our cowbells and blankets and sighed deeply and went home, already optimistic for the next game or the next season. Now, Jim resides with the Lord and my kids are grown. Both still love baseball. I am grateful for all of the memories associated with the game. I still love it, from the little guys and gals to the Dawgs to the Yankees. ..and, by adoption, the Rockies. It’s just a game, but a glorious one.