The first of September was the last of my games. One final home game, and this time I’m really at home. I’ve seen 9 new stadiums, and meticulously combed over each one like an architect, or at least a prospective buyer. I’ve gone to the top decks and gotten as close as each stadium’s security allow. As many times as I’ve been to Yankee Stadium, I haven’t gotten to know it as well.
This time, I tried to see this ballpark as I saw all the others. Curiously, objectively, I try to use it as a clue to the way this city sees itself. I would see it absent my normal habits and new traditions. I would see it free of the entanglements of history and sentimentality. Have you ever tried to see your home the way a guest might see it? Have you ever looked at your home the way a thief will see it?
I never get to Yankee Stadium in time for batting practice. After work, getting there, meeting up, and a few rounds at Stan’s, I rarely make it to the seats in time for role call. This time I decide to be there as early as I’ve been to other stadiums. I like watching batting practice. Sometimes you can tell when a hitter is going to have a good or bad day by what they do in the cage. Many people show up with gloves to try to catch a ball. I’m not here for souvenirs (plus, Pittsburgh) so after a few minutes, I line up to see Monument Park for the first time.
This time, back home but looking like a visitor, I walked among the retired numbers and plaques, but I kept looking out at the active players, still tuning up for the game. More people should look at the field from there; it’s a great center field view. But they don’t, they’re looking at plaques of the past and the pictures they’ve just taken. The team puts up netting to protect the people from being hit by shots just like the one I saw one of the Oakland A’s crank out from the batter’s box. It looked and sounded like a no-doubt dead-center shot. It flew true, straight to where I was standing. The net caught the ball, and I caught the net and stopped it from dropping into the flowerbed at my feet. The kid next to me with his baseball glove—the obnoxious one with no parents and no manners who kept pushing—looked at me like I’d found a puppy. Or a porkchop. I said, “Get your glove ready,” and let the ball drop into it. I could have kept it, but that wasn’t the ball I wanted.
I had had the only ball I wanted for most of my life. When I was seven and a half, I was taken to Cooperstown to see Hank Aaron get inducted into the Hall of Fame. My father and uncle and I lined up to get autographs from some of those already in the hall. The scam was that they advertised all the old-timers that were there, but once you got close, you realized you could only go to one of the three tables. Stan Musial didn’t like that. He took his chair and his pen and set up in front to sign for all comers. I had gotten a ball that had his face and signature printed on it. I handed it to him, and he looked at it twice, and me once, and smiled and signed it. Stan the Man indeed.
I was put on the line with people I would only later come to know. And even later, on this road trip, I would see many of them memorialized (often posthumously) in their own cities. Bob Feller’s statue stands outside the main gate in Cleveland. Ralph Kiner’s number 4 is retired in Pittsburgh. Billy Herman is remembered in Wrigley. Bill Dickey is right there in Monument Park. That ball is one of the two things that survived every one of my moves, modes, and moods. In every one of my rooms, it has been on display, however subtly, in the plastic case made specially for keeping special baseballs. It connected me to my past—that first trip to Cooperstown—and baseball’s past—It was signed by players my grandfather looked up to. It was one of six items stolen from my home two years ago. It was the last of the six that I discovered gone, and the one that is irreplaceable. I looked at the clean black circle left in the dust by the deft thief, and for a while hoped that I had only misplaced it.
That was the one ball I wanted, and this ball was not that. I thought that it might be, though, for that little shithead. When I gave it to him, he looked at me with disbelief but no gratitude, as if I were the dumb one and he’d just gotten one over on me.
I thought for some time that I’d get the ball back. Something that unique must be traceable. It hasn’t been. I think I know I won’t ever see it again. When something like that is taken from you, it doesn’t ever come back. And something else gets taken from you too. You can’t come home from a long trip or a long day without wondering what’s still behind your door. There’s always a moment—a drawing in of breath that doesn’t get released until you see that this time your TV is right where you left it.
When you’re on the road for two weeks, every now and then you wonder if, at that moment, or the night before, or the next, you are being violated. You know there is nothing you can do about it but stay home. That’s no way to win. The object of the game is to run around so you can come home. And when you are home, you hear the same sounds but now you wonder if the thief has come back to see you again. In the dark, you turn your head toward your protection plan—A baseball bat, of course—that is being kept to be used nearer to the bed than the ball field.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
So, Why DO You Like Baseball?
I've seen nine stadiums I had never seen before, and met a whole lot of people I would never have known if it weren't for having this game to bring us together. I like that about baseball. It's a team game that requires individual efforts. On the field and off, it brings us together. It's made meeting people easy, and I've loved learning what everyone comes up with as an answer to the question I asked everyone: "Why do you like baseball?"
I’ve discovered that the biggest fans of the game have the hardest time with this question. I’ve discovered that there is no such thing as a former baseball player. I’ve discovered that this question makes most men a bit wistful, and most women a bit flush. I’ve discovered that no matter where in this country a baseball fan lives, his affinity for the sport is about more than just the game. It’s about his past, his identity, his hopes, and his ability to always say, “Maybe Next Year.”
I’ve discovered that this is still America’s Pasttime, and that however complicated the intricacies of the game may be, people will always want to have a place where the object of the game is as simple as getting back to home.
A sample of the answers I’ve gotten from fans everywhere:
PLEASE ADD YOUR OWN ANSWER AS A COMMENT BELOW.
“I’ve played the game since I was a kid.” (By far the most popular answer)
“It was always a part of my life growing up.”
“It’s a thinking man’s game. You can’t be dumb and be good at it.”
“I just like to watch it. I like that baseball players, for the most part, are better citizens than other athletes, and it’s easier for me to root for them. I like that my grandsons look up to them.”
“Baseball players are hot.”
“I like that no matter how well you know the game, you can always learn more about it.”
“I like its continuity. It’s about playing well for an entire summer, but everything your team does one day affects what could happen the next day.”
"It's the only sport my wife will watch with me."
“It’s just a great game.”
“In any game, you can see something happen that you never saw before. Even Tim McCarver said the other day that he saw something new. How many games has he played in or seen as an announcer? And still, the game has surprises.”
“Well, it won me over slowly. I used to think it was boring, and I’d go to the games just to drink with my mates. But in the ten years that I’ve been in the U.S., I’ve learned more about it, and come to see that it’s a great game, and that it’s not just a lot of waiting for someone to get a hit. There are things happening with every pitch. You have to be looking for them to see them, but those things are what really make it great.”
“I like the battle between the pitcher and the batter. It’s a show-down every time, with the pitcher saying, “Take this,” and the batter responding, trying to take the upper hand.”
“It’s cool that the defense always has the ball. It’s the only sport that’s like that.”
"Wow, that's a great question. Do you want a beer?"
"It's the only game that matters. I don't care about football, but if my baseball team loses, it affects my mood until they turn it around."
“Baseball has always been the way my family has connected. I can watch a game with my grandmother and my father, and feel a connection to them and to the past.”
From Timothy B. Shutt, author of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame: A History of Baseball in America”
(I am a big fan of Shutt’s work. I sent Professor Shutt a message telling him about my trip, and that I was reading his book first on my trip. I was thrilled that he actually wrote back!)
“It’s had a unique and long-lasting impulse on American self-identity. Baseball is the game that we play, we made it up. All of those ideas have given it a peculiar resonance. Football and basketball now give baseball a run for its money, but in terms of long-term history, baseball stands first.”
From Ken Burns, Writer and Director of “Baseball” the nine (soon to be 10!) part documentary on the history of the game. (Ken Burns threw out the first pitch in Pittsburgh to promote the “10th Inning” installment, showing on PBS on September 28, 2010)
It is played everywhere. In parks and playgrounds and prison yards. In back alleys and farmers' fields. By small children and old men. Raw amateurs and millionaire professionals. It is a leisurely game that demands blinding speed. The only game in which the defense has the ball. It follows the seasons, beginning each year with the fond expectancy of springtime, and ending with the hard facts of autumn. It is a haunted game, in which every player is measured against the ghosts of all who have gone before. Most of all, it is about time and timelessness. Speed and grace. Failure and loss. Imperishable hope. And coming home.”
(Thank you Tommy for giving me that quote...By the way, I'm still waiting for your answer.)
I’ve discovered that the biggest fans of the game have the hardest time with this question. I’ve discovered that there is no such thing as a former baseball player. I’ve discovered that this question makes most men a bit wistful, and most women a bit flush. I’ve discovered that no matter where in this country a baseball fan lives, his affinity for the sport is about more than just the game. It’s about his past, his identity, his hopes, and his ability to always say, “Maybe Next Year.”
I’ve discovered that this is still America’s Pasttime, and that however complicated the intricacies of the game may be, people will always want to have a place where the object of the game is as simple as getting back to home.
A sample of the answers I’ve gotten from fans everywhere:
PLEASE ADD YOUR OWN ANSWER AS A COMMENT BELOW.
“I’ve played the game since I was a kid.” (By far the most popular answer)
“It was always a part of my life growing up.”
“It’s a thinking man’s game. You can’t be dumb and be good at it.”
“I just like to watch it. I like that baseball players, for the most part, are better citizens than other athletes, and it’s easier for me to root for them. I like that my grandsons look up to them.”
“Baseball players are hot.”
“I like that no matter how well you know the game, you can always learn more about it.”
“I like its continuity. It’s about playing well for an entire summer, but everything your team does one day affects what could happen the next day.”
"It's the only sport my wife will watch with me."
“It’s just a great game.”
“In any game, you can see something happen that you never saw before. Even Tim McCarver said the other day that he saw something new. How many games has he played in or seen as an announcer? And still, the game has surprises.”
“Well, it won me over slowly. I used to think it was boring, and I’d go to the games just to drink with my mates. But in the ten years that I’ve been in the U.S., I’ve learned more about it, and come to see that it’s a great game, and that it’s not just a lot of waiting for someone to get a hit. There are things happening with every pitch. You have to be looking for them to see them, but those things are what really make it great.”
“I like the battle between the pitcher and the batter. It’s a show-down every time, with the pitcher saying, “Take this,” and the batter responding, trying to take the upper hand.”
“It’s cool that the defense always has the ball. It’s the only sport that’s like that.”
"Wow, that's a great question. Do you want a beer?"
"It's the only game that matters. I don't care about football, but if my baseball team loses, it affects my mood until they turn it around."
“Baseball has always been the way my family has connected. I can watch a game with my grandmother and my father, and feel a connection to them and to the past.”
From Timothy B. Shutt, author of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame: A History of Baseball in America”
(I am a big fan of Shutt’s work. I sent Professor Shutt a message telling him about my trip, and that I was reading his book first on my trip. I was thrilled that he actually wrote back!)
“It’s had a unique and long-lasting impulse on American self-identity. Baseball is the game that we play, we made it up. All of those ideas have given it a peculiar resonance. Football and basketball now give baseball a run for its money, but in terms of long-term history, baseball stands first.”
From Ken Burns, Writer and Director of “Baseball” the nine (soon to be 10!) part documentary on the history of the game. (Ken Burns threw out the first pitch in Pittsburgh to promote the “10th Inning” installment, showing on PBS on September 28, 2010)
It is played everywhere. In parks and playgrounds and prison yards. In back alleys and farmers' fields. By small children and old men. Raw amateurs and millionaire professionals. It is a leisurely game that demands blinding speed. The only game in which the defense has the ball. It follows the seasons, beginning each year with the fond expectancy of springtime, and ending with the hard facts of autumn. It is a haunted game, in which every player is measured against the ghosts of all who have gone before. Most of all, it is about time and timelessness. Speed and grace. Failure and loss. Imperishable hope. And coming home.”
(Thank you Tommy for giving me that quote...By the way, I'm still waiting for your answer.)
Sunday, August 29, 2010
I do
I had already seen the best ballpark in America. I had already had two of the best bowls of chili I had ever eaten. I had already learned, once and for all that it’s spelled with three N’s, 3 I’s, 2 C’s, and a little T and A. I had learned that there actually is something redeeming about Ohio, and I had put in the paperwork to adopt the Reds as my national league team. How could I not? The city rolled out the Reds carpet for me...Jay Bruce hit three home runs, and the team put on a fireworks display after the game, all because this was the day I decided to visit. This city knows how to welcome someone to town. On the outside of its stadium it says in red neon, "Rounding Third and Heading Home..." and I realized that as far as my trip went, that's exactly what I was doing.
I wasn't ready for it to be over. I had fallen in love with Cincinnati. Not for what it is, to be sure, but for what it has the potential to be. This city is full of prime undeveloped riverside real estate. They have done nothing with the waterfront there, and I don’t understand why. Even Detroit built a nature walk on its river. I can’t imagine why Cincinnati has done so little, except that it might want to conceal from Kentucky the fact that there is anything good going on on the other side of the bridges.
I had already fallen for it. It didn’t need to do anything more to get me to go home with it. And then it did.
The game was over and I was hoping to find somewhere to get more chili and pass a few hours before my 1:45 bus to Washington. I passed up a few bars that were a little too close to the stadium, and too full of people who looked as if they hadn’t watched the game, let alone stayed for the fireworks.
I walked around the area with which I had familiarized myself that afternoon. A basic downtown that has some surprises here and there, like an open field surrounded by Doric columns when you turn one corner, and a gravel lot when you turn another. Its most central public square has a sculpture fountain, with a pool at the bottom, and multiple spouting fishes. It is topped by Jesus blessing all the sculptures below him with steady showers of water falling from his outstretched hands. In Cincinnati, even that worked somehow.
I was happy to find that at that very square there was a live band playing, a beer truck and a few food vendors. All because this was the day I decided to visit. I wasn’t much in the mood for talking that night. I had had a double header the night before, and if that wasn’t a social damper, then the bearded bald drunk guy that approached me and told me “They’re all going to love you,” put me off the rest of the way. I got a beer and sat at the fountain, not listening to the band. I had tired of talking about my trip. I had tired of asking my question.
And then a couple sat down next to me, and the man asked me to take their picture. Of course I would, and after having to ask so many people so recently to take my picture in front of something, I took care to get it right. With and without flash, focused on them, or squeezing in Jesus.
“Holy Shit,” he said. “This is an amazing picture.” He was wearing a Ryne Sandberg jersey, and she didn’t want to be there. They were more or less a couple of douche bags. “Have you found your special person?” The guy asked me. I stumbled on that question. It was another thing I didn’t want to talk about. He told me that he had, and that it was here, and that here they were, and that how could the two people in that photograph not be meant to be together?
And then he got down on one knee, pulled out a ring box, and proposed to her in front of me, in front of Jesus and everyone. She said yes, and it was then that I thought I might be getting waved in. It was time to be rounding third and heading for home.
I wasn't ready for it to be over. I had fallen in love with Cincinnati. Not for what it is, to be sure, but for what it has the potential to be. This city is full of prime undeveloped riverside real estate. They have done nothing with the waterfront there, and I don’t understand why. Even Detroit built a nature walk on its river. I can’t imagine why Cincinnati has done so little, except that it might want to conceal from Kentucky the fact that there is anything good going on on the other side of the bridges.
I had already fallen for it. It didn’t need to do anything more to get me to go home with it. And then it did.
The game was over and I was hoping to find somewhere to get more chili and pass a few hours before my 1:45 bus to Washington. I passed up a few bars that were a little too close to the stadium, and too full of people who looked as if they hadn’t watched the game, let alone stayed for the fireworks.
I walked around the area with which I had familiarized myself that afternoon. A basic downtown that has some surprises here and there, like an open field surrounded by Doric columns when you turn one corner, and a gravel lot when you turn another. Its most central public square has a sculpture fountain, with a pool at the bottom, and multiple spouting fishes. It is topped by Jesus blessing all the sculptures below him with steady showers of water falling from his outstretched hands. In Cincinnati, even that worked somehow.
I was happy to find that at that very square there was a live band playing, a beer truck and a few food vendors. All because this was the day I decided to visit. I wasn’t much in the mood for talking that night. I had had a double header the night before, and if that wasn’t a social damper, then the bearded bald drunk guy that approached me and told me “They’re all going to love you,” put me off the rest of the way. I got a beer and sat at the fountain, not listening to the band. I had tired of talking about my trip. I had tired of asking my question.
And then a couple sat down next to me, and the man asked me to take their picture. Of course I would, and after having to ask so many people so recently to take my picture in front of something, I took care to get it right. With and without flash, focused on them, or squeezing in Jesus.
“Holy Shit,” he said. “This is an amazing picture.” He was wearing a Ryne Sandberg jersey, and she didn’t want to be there. They were more or less a couple of douche bags. “Have you found your special person?” The guy asked me. I stumbled on that question. It was another thing I didn’t want to talk about. He told me that he had, and that it was here, and that here they were, and that how could the two people in that photograph not be meant to be together?
And then he got down on one knee, pulled out a ring box, and proposed to her in front of me, in front of Jesus and everyone. She said yes, and it was then that I thought I might be getting waved in. It was time to be rounding third and heading for home.
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