Redtree Times

Homefield – At Principle Gallery

Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd;
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack,
I don’t care if I never get back.
Let me root, root, root for the home team,
If they don’t win, it’s a shame.
For it’s one, two, three strikes, you’re out,
At the old ball game

—Take Me Out to the Ball Game, Jack Norworth and Albert Von Tilzer, 1908

Woke up later than usual this morning. Had my second round of radiation yesterday and later in the day I began to feel dragged down. Slight burn on the spot on my pelvis that was one of the treated sites.  But I was able to stay up to see much of the first game of the Major League Baseball season between the Yankees and the Giants out in San Francisco.

The Yanks prevailed but just having the game back was a little reassuring, especially on an evening when I was being reminded of what was going on inside me as I was trying to shut out the absurdity of what was taking place in the outside world.

Baseball’s always been a safe haven of sorts for me as well as a classroom. It taught many lessons.

Humility for example. How to lose. How to win. Baseball is game of mostly failure and occasional redemption. Your flaws and strengths are out in the open for all to see.

It teaches you what you are capable of and what is beyond you and that the distance of the gulf between the two is dependent on how hard you are willing to work.

It taught me an appreciation for the natural beauty and grace in the arc of fly ball or of well-turned double play

It taught me that brute strength is not infallible. In a game based on subtle skills, strategy, and teamwork, the little guy, the underdog, can defeat the biggest guy. 

That’s probably the lesson we should all take from the game these days. The big guys seem intent on changing the game so that the little guy will never win again. I’m not talking about baseball here, folks. 

This was meant to be short and sweet since time is limited this morning but it rambles on. Below is a little more, if you have the will to go on, about my relationship with the game. I first shared it back in 2009.

Baseball has always held a special place for me. Oh, I was no more than an average player– decent bat, lousy arm. slow on the basepaths, 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 heading with my grandfather to New York City on their honeymoon in 1921 and seeing Babe Ruth play with the Yankees. Ruth hit a double and a triple as she vividly recalled. If memory serves me, she said they sat along the third baseline at Yankees Stadium.

I remember sitting with my grandfather, the mythological Shank, so called as a stage manager in vaudeville before WWI for the holds he would apply to his opponent’s legs during his earlier time as a professional wrestler in the first decade off the 20th century, to watch the World Series in the afternoons of 1968. I had my tonsils out and was still recuperating and we watched the St. Louis Cardinals play the Detroit Tigers, who won the series. It was great watching with my grandfather plus I was introduced a player who became one of the heroes of my youth, Bob Gibson, the Cardinal’s pitching ace.

The Classic Bob Gibson Followthrough

Gibby was it for me. The toughest guy out there, one whose competitive fire was 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 as a kid 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, going from abject poverty onto college then a stint with the Harlem Globetrotters then on to baseball stardom.

He remains a hero out of myth for me.

Baseball was always played at our house. My dad was a pretty fair pitcher who had promise as a youth. In subsequent years, I have uncovered numerous news stories in old newspapers about his exploits on the mound and in the field. But later, as a dad, he would occasionally play catch with me and my friends. It was just easy toss but every so often he would unleash a fastball that made my friends ooh and ahh.

But the big moment always came when he would break out his knuckleball, a pitch he was known for in his younger days. It was practically uncatchable, having a spectacular drop that would appear to be entering your glove only to end up hitting you in the stomach. Or lower. I was never able to master the pitch but still appreciate the awkward grace and dance of a well thrown knuckler.

Other times, I would pitch to him in our large yard next to our house. out of myth for me 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.

Payback was just part of the game. Tit for tat. Instant karma.

I would calm myself and wait until he would pitch to me, waiting for the perfect pitch when I could send a hard-hit line drive back at him, making him duck or dive. At such times, after having to jump out of the way or defend himself with his glove, he would yell out a Hey! and give me a harsh look. Then he would usually laugh because he knew that I was just paying him back for his earlier actions.

Like I said, payback was just part of the game.

Even my work has been somewhat affected by my experiences with the game. I remember the first time coming out of the mezzanine tunnel during a night game at Shea Stadium in the late 1960’s and seeing the field spread out before me. I was stunned by the richness and lushness of the colors under the warmth of the lights. It was a feeling that I think I wanted to replicate in some manner which ultimately led me to art. It certainly is the basis for my occasional baseball paintings.

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 Ballgame from Harpo Marx, played on I Love Lucy. It is delicate and graceful.  It’s the essence of the memory of baseball for me…