It is no longer the national pastime, but it remains the Sultan
of Summer. It may not carry the punch of a funny commercial, but it possesses
the intrigue of a finely crafted novel.
It
is both high drama and quiet company on a Sunday afternoon. It is simple and
yet strategic. It is for the young and the old.
Play
ball.
It
is Earl Weaver spewing cuss words that don’t go together. It is George Brett
making like an attack dog over pine tar. It is Lou Pinella kicking, punching
and tossing second base into right field.
It
is a fastball followed by the curve. It is a bunt followed by a grand slam. It
is a perfect inning followed by a sudden trip to the showers.
Why
do they call it the ‘bullpen?’
It
is Charlie Hustle, the Kid, and the Big Bambino. It is Murderer’s Row, the
Amazing Mets and the Big Red Machine. It is Wrigley and Fenway whatever that
thing is in Tampa.
It
is Harry Carey singing during the seventh inning stretch. It is Vin Scully
finishing lengthy stories just perfectly as the inning abruptly ends, and a
silky smooth Marty Brenneman working seamlessly with the Old Lefthander and now
the Cowboy.
This
one belongs to the Reds.
It
is a game where four hits in ten tries makes you a hero, but only two in ten
makes you a bum. It is where the best team in the land will lose 60 times, and
the worst will win 60. It is a
game where perfection is never the rule, but the exception.
It
is Rodriguez, Squints and Smalls on hot summer days on “The Sandlot.” It is Roy
Hobbs defying the odds and making a comeback in “The Natural.” It is Kevin
Costner risking everything on the assurance that if he builds “The Field of
Dreams,” they will come.
“Is
this heaven?” “No, it’s Iowa.”
It
is baseball.
It
is what makes summer so spectacular.
So
while the world changes channels to see the World Cup or Wimbledon or what
LeBron decides next, I’ll take the Reds and the Padres on a warm summer
evening, for a game that might not carry any significance come October.
I’ll
take a book about Sparky Anderson, a movie about Jackie Robinson and a good
conversation about what the Cubs need to do to win a World Series someday.
I’ll
take baseball, America’s summer pursuit.
It
is Carlton Fisk begging for the ball to stay fair. It is Bill Buckner wishing
the ball went foul. It is Tony Perez waiting patiently on Bill Lee’s second
bloop pitch in a row … and then hitting it halfway to Montreal.
It
is 1973 with Springboro’s Dave Whalen throwing the hardest fastball in three
counties, practically setting my catcher’s mitt on fire. It is 1978 in a
Franklin game at Lebanon, when Kevin Hollon assures me I have plenty of room to
catch a ball hit to deep left center field, which of course I didn’t, and I
practically broke a leg crashing into the fence as I caught it (“You wouldn’t
have caught it if I’d have told you the truth,” he told me). It is 2014 and the
old man in my bathroom mirror wishes he could play all those games all over
again.
It
is Bruce Springsteen and “Glory Days.”
It
is Paul Simon asking, “Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?”
It
is John Fogarty singing “Centerfield.”
And
it is me, soaking up the sights and sounds of every part of the game, even
still, almost 50 years after I first started to play.
Put
me in, Coach. I’m ready to play.