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…
Memories. That is what you’ve given me today. Our family moved back to Windsor Ontario in 1967 and since Detroit was just a river away, most Windsorites supported teams like the Tigers. I remember them winning that year! The other fond memory was that episode of I Love Lucy with Harpo Marx. I recently watched an item on TV here in the UK about the Marx brothers and watched Harpo and Chico play together on one piano. Brilliant! So thank you … for the memories, that iconic song, the reminder of smells and sounds at the ball park, and hoping for a good prize in my Cracker Jacks.
Glad this inspired you to revisit your own memories, Tamara. We traveled to Detroit in 1967 to see the Tigers play. It was a month before the 1967 riots there. I remember seeing photos in Life magazine of rioting in some of the very places we had been just weeks before. Heady stuff for a child! I know that video you mention of Chico and Harp playing. As you say, brilliant!
Thanks for your reply and mentioning you’d been to Detroit. I was born in Windsor but we moved away for a while then back … because of a job promotion for my father and because his parents and family were there. Personally I never wanted to remain in Windsor … for a few reasons, including the weather, but over the years I’ve discovered that its the people and memories that can draw you back. Anyway, I remember the riots as saw smoke rising over the Detroit skyline at times. Here we are almost 60 years on and I wonder what we’ve learned from it all.
I will read anything you write about baseball. I’d have read this sooner if I’d known!
I grew up in and north of Kansas City, so I essentially had two teams to love. As an elementary student in KC in the 60s, my teachers let us listen to the WS games when the Cardinals played, and my parents took my sister and I to several KC Athetics/Royals games in the old Municipal Stadium, and later to see the Royals in their fancy new stadium complex alongside the Chief’s Arrowhead stadium. Such a treat! In KC I would collect stray golf balls at the driving range up the road, get paid a nickel apiece, then spend my money across the street at the 7-11 for a 5 pack of baseball cards that included a stick of bubblegum. Not even the poison ivy could keep me from collecting those golf balls! I had a shoebox full of cards from the 60s into the 70s. I have no idea what happened to them. 😭
Decades later when the Cards began building a new stadium, I asked my dad to meet me in St. Louis and go see the Cards play the Cubs in the old stadium that September. I forget now who won, 🤷🏼♀️ but that wasn’t really the point anyway. I even took the ball glove dad and I picked out together at Sears when I was about 10 years old.
One of the things on my bucket list is to see games at several iconic parks when my traveling days begin next year. I’ve only been to one game since that one with Dad, 2 years ago as a surprise on Mother’s Day in Denver. I love it when my kids make me cry happy tears! The Rockies even beat the Rangers, the reigning champs. I recorded my daughter and I singing during the 7th inning stretch, sans harp.
OK, I’m done haha. Glad the season has begun. Play ball! ⚾
I used to collect baseball cards and Beatles baseball type cards but my mom threw them out. Going to the old Yankee Stadium was like entering an amazing cathedral. My cousin has gone to every baseball stadium and took me to the final game of Mariano Riviera. the Yankee relief pitcher, which was mind blowing.
We are lucky to have these experiences. I enjoy listening on the radio too.
My mom likely did the same with my cards. Oh well!
My mom did the same, Lucy! I had a big box of cards that my brother and I had collected going back to around 1960. There were some great cards in there. And soon after I left home, Mom cleaned house and the cards were gone. She later realized that she probably should have held on to them. I went to only one game at the old Yankee Stadium to see my early childhood hero, Mickey Mantle. As for the great Mariano, here’s a link to a post about that last game that features one of my favorite baseball paintings.
Greener Pastures: 42 | Redtree Times
What great memories, Patty. In many cases such as ours, baseball is a fine thread that runs through and enrichens our lives. Thanks for sharing. You mentioned your glove. Here’s a link to a post that features some pretty cool gloves you might appreciate.
Aaah, Baseball Returns | Redtree Times
I listened to the Astros home opener at work today — on my $9 transistor AM radio. I think baseball always sounds better on radio; we have a terrific play-by-play guy and a great color commentator, so there’s no need to sit in front of a screen. I’ve not always been a fan, but as I’ve aged, I’ve come to appreciate the pace of the game.
I agree 100% that listening to baseball on the radio is far superior to listening to the inane chatter of TV announcers that often seems more like distraction than description. A great radio announcer can paint a picture for you and make you feel closer to the action than TV images.