I remember it like yesterday. Some 55 years ago, my late father put a baseball bat in my hand. I couldn’t hit anything at first, but my swing from the left side of the plate improved enough to become a rather dangerous .208 hitter.
My Little League career left an indelible impression on a skinny kid who wore glasses as thick as Coke bottles, which somewhat clashed with my shiny orthodontic braces.
It really didn’t matter that I ended up with zero career home runs, as l loved the game, despite the itchy, ill-fitting uniform that l kept impeccably free of grass stain and dirt by virtue of never sliding in practice or a game.
Over time l watched so many talented professional players in Cincinnati, first at Crosby Field and then Riverfront Stadium before it became the Great American Ballpark. I saw all of it and then some, and it was without question a thrill.
Baseball back then was as pure as real spring water, and it was certainly billed correctly when dubbed America’s pastime. That’s right, despite all of its warts, the game was (and still is) a tremendous source of satisfaction for millions of fans, but the changes over the aforementioned decades have turned it into a different game, one that has in many ways excluded the purists who had flocked to ballparks for years.
From the designated hitter to performance enhancing drugs, Major League Baseball has attempted to weather the storm, with truncated games that go against the formula their television partners have developed to suit their needs.
There’s even players wearing microphones so they can talk to the announcers between pitches or from the dugout.
Never mind the strategy being employed by the manager who’s trying to win the game; just ask the player how his swing is suited for the short right field fence before you go to a commercial between yet another pitching change.
The games can be excruciatingly lengthy, causing fans to either nap or leave to get the jump on traffic.
Yes, a sport in which virtually every playing field utilizes different dimensions has a ton of problems, not the least being the idiotic rule which at one time awarded the winning team in the All-Star Game home field advantage in the World Series. Throw in labor strife and the never-ending debate over alleged juiced baseballs, and there’s more than enough reason to avoid the game and it’s ridiculously long regular season.
So why do I continue to watch?
Simple. I still love the game that gave me every reason to dream at night that despite my lack of talent, I was the next Willie Mays and nobody could tell me differently because l had his baseball card and wouldn’t sell it for any price.
Baseball has provided me much more than just entertainment; it’s given me hope every spring that my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates will win the World Series for the first time in over 40 years, setting up a David versus Goliath matchup in the playoffs against a larger-market team. Just give me that and a twilight doubleheader to boot and I’ll be more than just fine.
Yes, as screwed up as the professional game has become, I can’t shake the memories of Willie Stargell going deep as I inhale a bratwurst and a 44-ounce beverage. Those memories are forever, no matter how much MLB continues to alter what was once so fricking great.
So grab a loved one and visit the old ballpark soon. I’ll be there, you know, the one they’re attempting to move out of a box seat after discovering I simply moved down from the upper level when the usher turned away for a moment.
Wave at me as I’ll be there, still trying to figure out why they sing Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” during the seventh inning stretch instead of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”
Danny Bridges, who still has an old catcher’s mitt despite never donning the tools of ignorance as a child, can be reached at 317-370-8447 or at bridgeshd@aol.com.
