It’s that time of the year.
Catchers and pitchers are reporting to spring training. Baseball is in the air.
Baseball has always held a special place for me. Oh, I was no more than an average player– decent bat, lousy arm and a so-so glove– but there was pure magic in seeing the heroes of my youth and hearing the stories of the early legends of the game.
I remember my grandmother telling me of going to NY in 1921 on their honeymoon to see Babe Ruth play. Ruth hit a double and a triple as she recalled.
I remember sitting with my grandfather, the mythological Shank ,who used to call me “The Rat,” and watching the World Series in the afternoons after I had my tonsils out in 1968. The St. Louis Cardinals were playing the Detroit Tigers and I was introduced to one of the heroes of my youth, Bob Gibson.
Gibby was it for me. The toughest guy out there, one whose competitive fire is still legendary. So dominating as a pitcher that baseball changed the mound height because they felt the hitters needed help since he was practically unhittable. I read his early autobiography, From Ghetto to Glory, numerous times and that made him an even bigger hero to me. He was eloquent and college-educated, a rarity for ballplayers of that era, and his story was compelling. He remains a hero.
Baseball was always played at our house. My dad was a pretty fair pitcher. He would play catch with me and my friends and would break out his knuckleball. It was uncatchable, having a spectacular drop that would appear to be entering your glove only to end up hitting you in the stomach. I was never able to master the pitch but still appreciate a well thrown knuckler.
Other times, I would pitch to him and he would hit flies to my brother in the outfield. Periodically, he would hit hard liners back at me. They would bang off me or make me dive out of the way and he would cackle. I would then try to drill him with the next pitch, which would make him laugh even more because he had gotten my goat. I would calm myself and wait until he would pitch to me, waiting for the perfect pitch when I could send one back at him, making him duck or dive.
Over the years baseball has become my calendar for the passing of the year and is a comforting friend on the days when the world seems ready to implode. I am still captive to the numbers and legends of baseball, one of those romantics who see poetry in a game based in tradition.
To that end, here is a wonderful version of Take Me Out to the Ballpark from Harpo Marx, played on I Love Lucy. It is delicate and graceful. It’s the essence of the memory of baseball for me…
Redtree Times 
Yes, it’s that time of year…finally! Your post brings back a lot of memories. I too remember Bob Gibson as this towering force who just toyed with batters. By the way, great photo and vid. When I was a kid playing Little League all the pitchers wanted to be Bob Gibson or JR Richards, another towering figure, literally… and in imitation usually wound up overthrowing or throwing over the catcher’s head. I was an Astros and Cardinals fan growing up. Do you remember the junk baller Mick Scott? Funny, I remember playing catch with my dad and trying to throw palm balls coated with a little vaseline, which had no movement and a knuckle ball which failed to dip and dance. My dad just fired the balls back with comment.
It’s baseball time again. All is right with the world. Go Red Sox!
I have a couple of baseball posts if you are interested over on http://ribbie.wordpress.com in the Sports category.
Ribbie–
Thanks for the comment. I was an Al Hrabosky fan with his big fu manchu moustache and his crazy marching around the mound.
I tend to like players more than teams so over the years I have, oddly enough, been a Sox fan (loved Yaz !) and a Yankees fan. I loved the ’98 Yanks and their desire to win every inning of every game. That is something I still look for in any team.
Anyway, thanks again and hope for a great season.
My father grew up playing ball with Stan, and his brother Honey, Musial. He loved baseball.
But he was drawn to minor league ball. I don’t know why and wish I’d asked him when he was around.
But some of my favorite moments were spent watching the Durham Bulls in the old DAP (you can see it in the movie) in a box right along the third base line.
I think the attraction of baseball is that there is something special about watching guys who are so devoted to their dream that they will toil in the minors for years, playing in less than great conditions for regular-guy money. There’s a certain purity to this.
I grew up watching our Elmira Pioneers in the very nice (at the time) Dunn Field. We were an Orioles farm club so I got to see many of the great Orioles of the 60’s and 70’s as they were developing.
Stan Musial! He has become a bit lost in the collective memory but for baseball wonks like me, Stan was the Man. Very cool. Thanks, David.