In Praise of Baseball

On my life, I cannot fathom why anyone would prefer a sport other than baseball. We were born without any natural athletic ability. Remarkable speed was developed over time as we fled wasps, snakes and parents wielding all manner of weaponry. But hand-eye coordination was not part of the birthright. Like an ugly girl's first kiss, though, the world changed the day I held my first baseball card.

It was green on the back, with printing in navy blue or black. On the front stood a man with a bat, a glove, or a ball, or in mid-stride. He was a Yankee, a Royal, a Cardinal, a Brewer, a Ranger.... not that it mattered. It was numbered in the upper right-hand corner on the back, a testimony to its place among hundreds of others identical in design yet unique as snowflakes in their statistics. Shoe boxes, albums and every unclaimed drawer held the ever-growing collection. The thought of giving away any of the cards - though held in duplicate, triplicate, no matter - was as repulsive as the thought of giving away a good looking child.

I was hopelessly in love. I threw a tennis ball for hours against the front stoop - side armed, nearly underhand from an imaginary pitching mound in the front yard. I did Dan Quisenberry better than the Quiz himself. Catching the ball as it careened off the steps unpredictably was the necessary evil that separated one pitch from the next. I kept track in my mind of every hit and out as I played nine-inning games with the steps. If people got between me and the steps, I'd take the game to the backyard where it was tossing the ball as far as possible skyward and waiting for it to bounce off the slanted roof in who-knows-what direction. I was the best outfielder my mind's crowd had ever seen.

RC Cola, a nearly undrinkable beverage, partnered with the Royals in my childhood and the faces of George Brett, Hal McRae, Amos Otis, Fred Patek, Cookie Rojas and others called to me in the grocery store aisles. My family shifted its allegiance from Pepsi to RC in those days... a minor detour on our Journey To Coca-Cola. I would wash out the cans and line them up on the window sill in my bedroom, build pyramids on the floor, use them as decorative touches throughout the room - always with the pictures showing. Viewed from outside, the house must have appeared to be the abode of a low-paid RC employee.

My escape fantasies included hitting the baseball road with George Brett and Jamie Quirk - hanging out on the field before and after games. My greatest wish was to wake up a ball boy. There was no point to a seat anywhere in the stadium other than behind third base. John Mayberry was something at first base. But George Brett... he had the goods. I knew. The baseball card's statistics told me so. Baseball cards never lie. And if they do, they're an instant goldmine. Either way, you win.

I slept through one of the Royals' play-off games when I was 12 - on account of general anesthesia and a surgery. It was like missing a wedding when you're supposed to be the groom. In those days before Tivo, or even VCR's.... maybe even before BetaMax... lost viewing was gone forever. Irretrievable. It left you identified as The One Who Didn't See... I don't recall today whether The Good Guys won or lost in that missed game. But I remember that I missed it. That's how important baseball was... is.

I can't throw away a photo album chock-full of newspaper articles clipped from the daily newspaper chronicling the Royals from Spring Training through the World Series. I will never part with my baseball cards, which found their way back into my possession when I purchased a house with storage. Over the years, my parents had bought books and CD's that would place a dollar value on my collection, bought almost exclusively with their money - 10 to a pack... 2 pieces of rock-hard, rectangular, flattened bubble gum inside a pack that sometimes let you see at least one card through its back flap. Claude's Drug Store was my favorite place in the whole world because Claude and the ladies who worked there didn't mind much if you felt your way through the whole box of baseball cards, seeking the gods' will in which one would be yours for a quarter.

Summer is almost here. But the official date is irrelevant. Summer begins when The Boys Of Summer break training camp and the first pitch is made. They may as well open the pools that day in early April. Close the schools. Cancel rain. Command the wind to always blow out to left field.

And let middle-aged men forever revel in batted balls, one-hop grounders, and cans of corn.