Whenever someone asks me what my favorite sport is, I always respond that basketball is my favorite to play (although golf is quickly threatening to change this), but baseball is my favorite. This time of year, when the days stretch a little longer and the nip in the air grows a little less biting and pitchers and catchers have reported and started throwing, I feel renewed and alive. In baseball terms, spring represents hope, and hope springs eternal.
Unlike some attention-depraved sorry-sacks who say “baseball is so boring” or “the games last too long” or “there’s no action,” I have no problem sitting hour after hour watching the next nine innings or more unfold before my eyes. My answer to such complaints is “You’re really not comfortable with yourself, are you? Because if you were, you could just sit in that chair for more than five minutes in a row without checking who hasn’t texted you and realize the beauty that’s before you, that baseball is quite possible the most beautiful, well-thought creation ever brought forth.”
On some levels, I understand certain people’s dislike for baseball. It is slow. The “action” can be lacking in this “give it to me now” world. No one is getting his head handed to him by a guy on the other team, so the “ooh and ah” moments occur far less often. No one is moving at the speed of light on a pair of skates or defying gravity flying to the basket or driving a 2,000-pound vehicle in constant left turn risking death while doing so. I get all that. I’d argue, though, that these are the very reasons baseball is superior. Baseball gives you time to ponder and reason and anticipate and predict what’s about to occur. Baseball isn’t instantly gratifying; it’s perpetually gratifying. Baseball requires your patience and mind to work simultaneously. Baseball is discipline. Some people don’t have that at their disposal.
For those who can’t stand the thought of spending even one moment of a day without socializing in some form or another, I’d suggest getting yourself out to a ballpark post-haste. Your reward will be two-plus hours of uninterrupted socializing opportunities—with the added bonus of stuffing your face with some of the finest food ever concocted by man. Wash a few peanuts back with a frosty-cold beer while sitting in the sun and tell me I’m not right. Honestly, I’m of the opinion that too many people have forgotten how to relax. Spend an afternoon at the park and you’ll remember. Think you can’t afford that? Think again. Major league games aren’t the only ones around. I’ve had just as much fun randomly stopping my car to watch nine-year-olds battle it out at a park with maybe five rows of bleachers to sit on as I have had sitting in major league parks, and I didn’t spend a penny to do it.
Here’s the thing: I believe in baseball because even after roughly four decades of watching and playing it, the game still mystifies me. It’s almost impossible to cheat, but players try to do it every game. There’s no official rule that says if your pitcher hits my batter, I’m allowed to do the same, yet every team does it. Like a lot of life, what’s unstated and unofficial about baseball is just as important as what is official and spoken.
Sadly, I understand why baseball is dying, so to speak. It’s nearly impossible to get 18 kids together on any afternoon to get a game going. (How can sunshine compete with “Call of Duty”?) Not every kid owns a bat, ball, and glove. (Yet, every kid seems to somehow own a cell phone.) There aren’t enough baseball fields for kids to play on. (Yet, $10 can buy you a whiffle ball set and the most fun you’ll ever have.)
Sadder still to me personally, none of my kids really took to baseball in the way I did, and I don’t anticipate they ever will. That means there’s a lot of afternoon we’ll never spend sitting side by side, sharing sunflower seeds and downing hot dogs and catching up on life. But here’s what I’m holding on to while I prepare myself for another season of Yankees’ dominance: One day, I’ll have grandkids, and my every intention is to teach them early on to love the ballpark and what it represents. Then, they ask Grandpa to take them to the park every chance he gets. And I will.
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