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By BILL THOMPSON
Every fall right after the World Series is over, I vow I will stop being a baseball fan.
All winter my vow is reinforced as I hear and read about the drug scandals and the salary disputes. I wrap the old baseball cards in black and put them in the closet. Then comes spring and, like New Year’s resolutions, that vow evaporates.
It’s hard to hold a grudge against baseball when you drive by the local baseball fields and the grass has started to turn green and you see folks mowing the grass and raking the infield. Even as the “March Madness” of basketball still lingers in my mind, I begin to hear the old echoes: the crack (now “ping”) of the bat, the infield chatter, the umpire’s voice calling out balls and strikes.
I hear the soft swish of the sprinkler wetting down the dust and urging the grass to get greener and greener. I hear the voice of the announcer reading out the starting lineup; the applause for good plays and the groans for the bad ones mixed with the razzing of the umpire.
Gradually, all my senses start to strain trying to recall the variety of smells. There’s the aroma of popcorn mixed with the damp smell of that new mown grass as well as the earth of the infield, that old musty smell as we open up the press box and refreshment stand sealed through the winter, the subtle smell of the leather gloves and the neatsfoot oil used to soften them.
Then I even yearn to feel those hard bleacher seats, grayed from the sun and rain, often bowed over the years from the weight of hundreds of family members and friends who showed up for every game even when it was hot and even when it rained.
I feel that late afternoon heat being replaced by the cool evening breeze blowing across the ball field to the bleachers, a coolness that air-conditioning can only imitate. There’s that intangible feeling, too, that comes from sharing something you love with people you know.
I see the American flag flying from the pole, the breeze making it wave just like it says in the song that was sung at the beginning of the game. It reminds me that despite all the mess that comes with the business of professional baseball, the real game is played right here in the small towns and communities. It is still America’s game, our favorite pastime.
I see youngsters, boys and girls, in their uniforms. Some of the uniforms have had visible tailoring to fit new bodies to old clothes. In one ballpark I see some so young they have to be told which hand to put the glove on and in another ballpark some older ones who have developed their skills to the point that they move with an ease and confidence that belies their youth.
That old saying that “absence makes the heart grow fonder” must surely apply to baseball. I have gone through the winter with only the business of baseball but with spring the real thing comes back.
The spring brings a promise that maybe all is not lost, that there is still a chance that the game I grew up with is still alive, that it hasn’t been killed by greed.
Spring is just now straining to come back. The season is just beginning. A whole new generation will be introduced to the game that has been a part of the lives of so many previous generations.
If I strain my senses just like spring strains to break through, I declare I can hear Bobby Sessions shouting, “Play ball!”