My body's alarm clock s out of whack, the result of jumping an hour ahead this week.
It must be spring.
That means my beloved Detroit Tigers are tearing up the turf at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull. And my friend Oly's lovable Cubbies are blasting horsehide onto Waveland Avenue.
(In case you're wondering, Oly is the biggest chicago Cubs fan in the world. He eats, sleeps and breathes Cubs. He says he wants to be cremated and sprinkled along the first-base foul line after he dies. In another life, he might have been Hack Wilson or Grover Cleveland Alexander. Or even Ernie Banks, although since Mr. Cub is still living, that might be a bit difficult.)
It's been a long winter. Too much snow. Too many stupid million-dollar contracts. A war. Too many other distractions. As Tom petty sang, "The waiting is the hardest part."
No more. The calendar said spring began March 20. I know otherwise. Spring began April 8, when the first pitch was thrown and thousands of baseball-hungry fans screamed with delight.
Home plate has been dusted off. The tarp neatly rolled up in foul territory. The aroma of lukewarm hot dogs, even warmer beer, and mustard-slopped jumbo pretzels filled the nostrils of people luckier than me, who were able to catch the Tigers home opener in person.
Baseball.
It's box scores and errors, doubles up the gap and "standing by the side of the road and watching that one go by."
Baseball is Hammerin' Hank, The Babe, Stan the Man, Stormin' Norman, Daffy and Dizzy. It's Oil Can and The Ryan Express, Bam Bam and The Bash Brothers.
It's Ryno, The Hawk, and "Tram to Lou for Two."
It's bleacher seats and beach balls, tortilla wars in Anaheim, blowing up disco 45s in old Comiskey Park, the Green Monster and The Big Red Machine.
Baseball
Bo knows baseball. Bo knows football. Bo also knows hip injuries. Now, Bo knows Chicago (the White Sox, not the Cubs). Hmmm.
The "other" Bo - Schembechler - also knows baseball and football. One wonders which Bo knows more at times, though. Detroiters are still perplexingly perplexed with Bo's baseball knowledge; after all, in baseball, there's a tendency to do a lot of throwing of the ball.
Baseball is a field of dreams (sounds like a pretty good title for a movie, don't you think?), a vast wonderland of grass vs. turf, designated hitter vs. pitcher in the nine hole, good vs. The New York Yankees.
(As Tigers and Cubs fans, Oly and I tend to do a lot of dreaming. More often than not, mine takes place at work, which draws the wrath of my managing editor. There's the dream that the two teams will meet - finally - in the World Series, like they did in 1945, and like they should have done in 1984. There's the dream that Pittsburgh Pirate Barry Bonds will sit out the season, too upset because his contract is "only" $500 million [poor baby, where's my violin?]. There's the dream that I can become the next Ernie Harwell, even without changing my name. And there's the fantasy that Sports Illustrated swimsuit goddess Kathy Ireland will walk into the Herald's editorial department and say, "Gosh, baseball-loving columnists/reporters really turn me on!")
Like I said, a lot of dreaming.
There's plenty of other sports going on right now. The playoffs are approaching in basketball. They're already here for professional hockey. Tennis, golf and bowling are saturated on the television.
And, of course, the new World League of American Football, with its fancy helmet-cams and insipid team monikers (if Bart Simpson were quarterbacking the Birmingham Fire, what would he be? A spark? A match? Smokey the Bear?), it's all glitz and no substance.
Yawn.
But I have baseball now. Forever young, baseball is still the purest game in town. Foul lines stretch to infinite dimensions; in theory, a baseball game can last forever, since no set time limit controls its fate.
It's springtime. The Boys of Summer are back in action. And, by the way, as I am writing this, the Tigers are undefeated.
Save Oly and me a few seats in the front row.
This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.
No comments:
Post a Comment