Love Lost
One of my favorite stories from my childhood, which Grandma tells me from time to time, involves two year old Ian, a red plastic bat, and a wiffle ball. While my mother was off at the hospital delivering Orion, I was with my grandmother at our home, passing the time by hitting home runs out into the desert brush. I don't know whether I started to love baseball before that week in April, but I do know that it was a huge part of my life for the next sixteen years.
I did tee ball, little league (played for the Angels, the A's, the Indians-twice), Junior High baseball, and four years at various levels of high school ball. I remember the first time I got hit by a pitch--the stitches were visible on my left elbow--and the first time I was pitched to without being ready because I didn't step out of the batter's box between pitches. I remember my last game in Little League--a loss in the playoffs--losing in the championship game in 7th grade, and Coach Sipple's explosive temper freshman year--we weren't allowed to talk on the bus ride home after a loss to Desert Vista.
My best friends in high school, with a few exceptions, came from baseball. By the time we reached our senior year together, seven of us had been playing baseball together for six years. It was like a family--a group of guys that fought together, played together, hung out together, supported each other.... everything. I have never had a more rewarding athletic experience than my senior year of baseball, not because we broke the school record for wins or lost to the eventual state champions in quarterfinals in extra innings. It was an amazing year because we were so cohesive. We had each other's backs no matter what, in every situation. No questions asked. Brothers.
I didn't just love to play, I loved to watch. Baseball? Boring? Never occurred to me. Sitting half way up on the third base side at ASU ball games, Pops and I always scored the games, talked situational ball, heckled the ump, and shuddered at players going down on a called third strike: "SWING THE BAT!"
I don't care about baseball anymore.
I don't love the game, and I don't seem to miss it. I haven't watched a full ball game since ASU was in the College World Series last summer. I watched every single game of the 2004 Yanks/Sox series (never a doubt in my mind the Sox would win it, and I've got the text messages to prove it) with anticipation. Now, I just don't care. I don't know Ryan Howard or Papelbon or any other young talents taking over the game. Why did this go away?
I reached some kind of realization the other night when watching the Home Run Derby. Dad and I used to watch that every year, making our picks for who would win and marveling at the power of these men. I'm so furious at the game now because they aren't just men anymore. Who knows what supplements supply them with the means to blast titanic home runs out of the stadium? I can't trust the game, I can't trust the players, and so I can't love the game either.
Twelve years ago, you would have been hard-pressed to find a nine year old kid that knew more about baseball statistics than I did. I had card collections, knew endless amounts of trivia about pitchers, hitters, teams, and history. Baseball is a game of numbers. It's an old cliche, but it's the truth. How do records stand the test of time? We have numbers as the only basis of comparison for players across generations. In Field of Dreams, James Earl Jones said that "the one constant through all the years... has been baseball." I've lost love for the game because that is no longer true. There is no consistency to the game, no allegiance to the past or fidelity to the players of old. The game is filled with the disrespect of the tradition that has been built for over a hundred years on the sweat of players who did unreal things on the field, without promise of multi-million dollar contracts and without the aid of illegal substances.
Going to Cooperstown and visiting the Hall of Fame was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. Maybe the players in the Hall aren't the most honorable men, but they sure as hell honored the game. Today, players don't do that. The professional game has been inflated by money, loyalties have dissipated and honor is conspicuously absent. It seems as though my love for the game retired with Tony Gwynn, lingering on only at the prospect of the Red Sox winning their first series since 1918. They swept the Cardinals and that was it... baseball gave way to ultimate and I haven't paid attention to the game since the fall of 2004.
The bottom line is that I don't feel like I can trust the game. The statistical foundation has been cracked and I don't see the leadership doing anything to repair it. I will always love watching Tony Gwynn and Craig Counsell play ball, and my memories of baseball are as fond as any. I just don't love the game anymore.
I did tee ball, little league (played for the Angels, the A's, the Indians-twice), Junior High baseball, and four years at various levels of high school ball. I remember the first time I got hit by a pitch--the stitches were visible on my left elbow--and the first time I was pitched to without being ready because I didn't step out of the batter's box between pitches. I remember my last game in Little League--a loss in the playoffs--losing in the championship game in 7th grade, and Coach Sipple's explosive temper freshman year--we weren't allowed to talk on the bus ride home after a loss to Desert Vista.
My best friends in high school, with a few exceptions, came from baseball. By the time we reached our senior year together, seven of us had been playing baseball together for six years. It was like a family--a group of guys that fought together, played together, hung out together, supported each other.... everything. I have never had a more rewarding athletic experience than my senior year of baseball, not because we broke the school record for wins or lost to the eventual state champions in quarterfinals in extra innings. It was an amazing year because we were so cohesive. We had each other's backs no matter what, in every situation. No questions asked. Brothers.
I didn't just love to play, I loved to watch. Baseball? Boring? Never occurred to me. Sitting half way up on the third base side at ASU ball games, Pops and I always scored the games, talked situational ball, heckled the ump, and shuddered at players going down on a called third strike: "SWING THE BAT!"
I don't care about baseball anymore.
I don't love the game, and I don't seem to miss it. I haven't watched a full ball game since ASU was in the College World Series last summer. I watched every single game of the 2004 Yanks/Sox series (never a doubt in my mind the Sox would win it, and I've got the text messages to prove it) with anticipation. Now, I just don't care. I don't know Ryan Howard or Papelbon or any other young talents taking over the game. Why did this go away?
I reached some kind of realization the other night when watching the Home Run Derby. Dad and I used to watch that every year, making our picks for who would win and marveling at the power of these men. I'm so furious at the game now because they aren't just men anymore. Who knows what supplements supply them with the means to blast titanic home runs out of the stadium? I can't trust the game, I can't trust the players, and so I can't love the game either.
Twelve years ago, you would have been hard-pressed to find a nine year old kid that knew more about baseball statistics than I did. I had card collections, knew endless amounts of trivia about pitchers, hitters, teams, and history. Baseball is a game of numbers. It's an old cliche, but it's the truth. How do records stand the test of time? We have numbers as the only basis of comparison for players across generations. In Field of Dreams, James Earl Jones said that "the one constant through all the years... has been baseball." I've lost love for the game because that is no longer true. There is no consistency to the game, no allegiance to the past or fidelity to the players of old. The game is filled with the disrespect of the tradition that has been built for over a hundred years on the sweat of players who did unreal things on the field, without promise of multi-million dollar contracts and without the aid of illegal substances.
Going to Cooperstown and visiting the Hall of Fame was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. Maybe the players in the Hall aren't the most honorable men, but they sure as hell honored the game. Today, players don't do that. The professional game has been inflated by money, loyalties have dissipated and honor is conspicuously absent. It seems as though my love for the game retired with Tony Gwynn, lingering on only at the prospect of the Red Sox winning their first series since 1918. They swept the Cardinals and that was it... baseball gave way to ultimate and I haven't paid attention to the game since the fall of 2004.
The bottom line is that I don't feel like I can trust the game. The statistical foundation has been cracked and I don't see the leadership doing anything to repair it. I will always love watching Tony Gwynn and Craig Counsell play ball, and my memories of baseball are as fond as any. I just don't love the game anymore.
posted by Fish at 8:57 AM
1 Comments:
Is major league baseball baseball? It is amazing to see kids in spain playing pickup "soccer" in the streets or whatever. Is this just for the slim probability that they will get to the world cup someday? I hate to use it as an example, but the soldiers in Iraq are often out there during free time playing baseball. They know they won't be major leaguers. I wonder if baseball means something else. your friends in high school. what about the long arc of a well hit ball? A perfect throw from the outfield? 6-4-3? Something about it.
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