Baseball Ascending

 

As with most that love the game of baseball, mine is a complicated relationship with the sport. My love for baseball has only waxed with me into adulthood, it has never waned. But my attention to it goes through all the phases of the moon. In recent years it has hovered somewhere around the new moon.

My time with baseball recently has been limited to highlight reels on social media and the occasional glance at AL and NL standings, and box scores. This current languor has nothing to do with the sad performance of the Colorado Rockies, or the bonehead decision to give the designated hitter a home in the Nation League instead of kicking him out of the American League. My teams have always gone through extended periods in the basement of their respective divisions - here I offer the Atlanta Braves of the 1970's and 80's as an example. And baseball has always made horrendous mistakes regarding baseball's rules of play assuming offense is the primary reason anyone watches the game - the lowering of the mound due particularly to the dominance of Hall of Fame pitcher Bob Gibson springs immediately to mind. What brings me to my current predicament has everything to do with streaming services and how MLB deals with the watching of local teams.

Five years ago, we made the decision to ditch cable TV for streaming content due to the cost and impossible-to-understand "deals" offered by Xfinity. The only downside to streaming was the inability to watch "in market" baseball games unless I streamed a cable provider (thus defeating the purpose). Add to this the Rockies' inability to retain excellent players in favor of always expecting a talented rookie to arise from the minors, and my day-to-day interest in the sport has wavered. How can I be expected without the aid of television to keep up with the ever changing roster and performance of my Rockies when I look at the box scores and read it as "new guy", "Charlie Blackmon", "new guy", "f'n DH", "new guy", "I didn't know he was on the team", "new guy", and "new guy" - and who the heck knows who that pitcher is.

But without fail, during every spiritual low point with baseball, there is a redeeming epiphany that reminds me of the eternal flame within me for America's Pastime. My epiphany-of-the-moment occurred as I was driving past a neighborhood school, Columbia Elementary. Its lot is less than a square city block, so you can imagine the overall size of its playground. As I was passing it, a flash of bright green caught my eye, and I turned to see in one corner of that playground a perfect child-sized baseball diamond was laid out. I drove by it the following week and stopped and took a picture of it. The diamond was pristine. The grass a well-trimmed and vibrant green. The base paths unmarked by footprints. The chalk lines unmarred by baseballs, runners, or base coaches. The mound was perfectly groomed. I had no way to explain the idyllic conditions of this field fenced in along with gangs of 4-foot-tall bringers of chaos.

I went back today to look at it again and take a picture from atop the playground slide. From that vantage point I noticed something that I had not before. Dismounting, I walked over to the edge of the field, near the third base line. The field, the base paths, the mound were all astroturf. The razor straight base lines were painted on and not chalk at all. Learning this, I was not disenchanted in the least. It was after all, a wise choice for the cheering and laughing berserkers that would use it. I couldn't help but stand there, transfixed by this art imitating life, by this art as life. My mind could make out happily screaming children rounding the bases. I could almost hear the cheering of parents and sound of a baseball coming off the bat echoing in the morning's silence. And I smiled when I pictured a teacher, calling the game from behind the plate, throwing up her arms in exasperation, unable to make any sense of the latest inside the park home run and how it drove in more runners than bases.

This is the nature of the game. Fun, laughter, smiles. This is at the heart of baseball for me. It is what made this elementary school field a holy Chapel among the Cathedrals of baseball. There is Yankee Stadium, there is Fenway Park, there is Wrigley Field. But more importantly there are these oases of baseball purity. The places like sand lots, junk yards, inner city streets, and this school where dreams are born and some never die. 

I stood there, unable to step onto the artificial grass, unable to interrupt the reverence of the moment. I stood there like Doc Graham unable to cross the first baseline and return to his youthful "Moonlight" Graham self in Field of Dreams because those days were behind him, behind the ghost of him. My playing days ended when I was a child and lost track of my glove. My playing catch days ended when I caught a ball tossed by my college age son with my face in the fading light of day at a neighborhood park. At that point he simply said, "Let's go home." We have never tossed the ball since and I miss it, but it was the right call. I was never any good at baseball.

Columbia Elementary School's field was just another reminder that you don't have to be good at baseball to love it. You don't have to be good at baseball to regard it as mystical. You don't have to be good at baseball to keep it in your prayers and to honor it as America's Pastime.

Passing of the Torch

Today marks the closing of Vin Scully’s 67 years in broadcasting and as voice of the Los Angeles Dodgers.  Tomorrow, he begins retirement.  It is the magic of baseball that such a sad moment will also bring to countless individuals even more smiles as this event slips us into the past.  You see baseball more than any other sport not only embodies its present, but cannot exist without its past.  In baseball our tribal elders that pass along the stories and legacies of our clan are the announcers, and Vin represents the finest qualities of our elders.

The Dodgers during this last weekend of calls by Vin, are playing my Colorado Rockies in Los Angeles, and it has been both pleasure and honor to listen to the ceremonies, deserved tributes, and most of all the stories that surround the career of Vin Scully.  Baseball is all about the stories, and with each telling I not only learn a new tale, but I recall tales of my own.

I remember the bedroom I shared as a kid with my big brother Chris.  I don’t even have to close my eyes to feel the warmth of Southern Summer nights, see the grainy shadows of branches cast by street lights through the open window, and hear the coo of doves and hoots of owls as background noise to the call of baseball.  Chris and I each had our own twin bed, and between our beds was a nightstand on which a small box shaped AM radio softly glowed tuned to WDIX in Orangeburg bringing us Braves baseball from far off Atlanta.  Then it was Earnie Johnson and Milo Hamilton making the calls, telling the tales, bringing the likes Hank Aaron, Phil Niekro, and Dusty Baker to life in our dark and shadowed room.  Nationally televised games couldn’t compete as the stoically neutral announcers shared their experiences somehow watered down and sterile when compared to the familiar voices we listened to almost every night of the season.

Now an adult, I live in Colorado and follow most closely our Colorado Rockies.  They came into existence in 1993, just a year after I had met my future wife Jean-Marie and discovered she was a fan as well.  The story of the Rockies for me begins with the announcers.  I think Colorado did it right by bringing in the voice of the wonderfully experienced announcer Charlie Johnson on TV to gently gather the fans into the fold of the Rockies, familiarizing us with the collection of players assembled for the new expansion team.  When Charlie left, Drew Goodman took over the play-by-play reins accompanied first by George Frazier and now by Jeff Huson and Ryan Spilborghs on color (all former ball players).  On the radio, there have only been four announcers and I can still hear all their voices in equal proportion.  It started with Jeff Kingery and Wayne Hagen, and now the games come courtesy of Jack Corrigan and Jerry Schemmel.  I can enjoy the game as easily on radio as on TV thanks to all these fine voices.

Really the point is, baseball is a family made up of players and fans in equal parts with the announcer seated at the head of the table introducing one to the other and uniting all.  As Vin Scully retires, we say goodbye arguably to the greatest of our tribal elders that have included Jack Buck, Harry Carey, and the legendary Red Barber.  Baseball in large part is a sport that is passed on to generations as an oral history, and Vin Scully has done it better than anyone else.  Through his humility, knowledge, skill, and uncompromising respect for the sport and the characters that populate it, Vin has become a mentor to generations of announcers and the nation’s home team announcer.  Broadcast booths everywhere are a little emptier after today.

An ERA to Remember

There are some dreams from our youth which are so innocent and pure they return at the barest nudge. Spring is finally here and the flowers color a brief and fragrant period before summer brings a survivalist mentality to all things striving to be green and alive. The lawn is awake and mowing is the weekly homage paid, leaving the grass blades neat and even.

As I was walking in the yard after the day’s labor of ritual beautification, the feel of the grass beneath my work shoes brought my memories immediately to a time when I was young and the grass beneath my feet was not of my yard. The feeling of transubstantiation from present to past was as long as a dream, lasting only an instant. I was ten years old again and my tender young feet were in cleats, there was a glove on my left hand, and my head was clouded with visions of being a major league ball player. When I was little, I wanted to be a short stop just like Bert Campaneris of the Oakland A’s. It is such a natural thing for every boy to want to be something most boys could not be.

I was not a very good ball player. I knew that then, and I know that now. I was a little too timid to be a good batter, I was too slow to be an agile base runner, and I was and ever will be cursed with a weak throwing arm, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the fun of being part of the game. During my brief little league time, I played whatever position I was told to. I was a catcher (ordered not to attempt to throw out a runner because it was hard enough for me to get the ball back to the mound), a short stop, and a second baseman - my arm being so poor, outfield was usually not a consideration. I didn’t care about any of that. I was a member of a team playing the greatest sport I could imagine.

Anyone would admit that baseball is a game of infinite statistics. Those of us that love the sport cling to the statistics, embrace them, marvel at each new nugget mined by the statisticians and reported through the announcers telling us that such-and-such player has a 0.350 batting average against pitchers whose name end in a silent “e” during months with 31 days when playing a Wednesday day game. We can also tell you at least one statistic from what constituted our time spent on the diamond - whether it be high school, college, or (for me) Albergotti Park. In the dugout or on the field I never felt inconsequential or below average, I was simply part of the game.

My thoughts tumble easily back to playing little league and having my father as coach. I don’t think my dad knew that much about the game, but he was willing to give his time always to his children. When providing instruction, his swing and throws were awkward, and though it pains me to admit, this made me embarrassed. I loved him and was proud of him, but I should have realized then what I know now, his awkwardness was a badge of his strength.

On one occasion it was late in the game and our starting pitcher was flagging. I was on the bench anxious to see the field in any capacity. With one out, my father looked to the bench to send in a relief pitcher. He must have seen something in me, because he picked me to go out and take the ball. Me! I had never pitched in a game before and my father (one in constant fear of the cry nepotism) still picked me to go to the mound. I took the ball and accepted my charge.

Needing only two outs, I looked to my catcher. The first batter came to the plate, and through luck more than prowess I struck him out. Confidence swelled up until the second batter entered the box. He was a lefty. Really? Who bats left handed so young? I was shaken. Four pitches later, he was at first and I was having doubts. Batter number three came up and I could swear he was swaggering. Heart in my throat, I went into my wind-up and threw. Contact was made, but it was a grounder to the short stop (someone with a better and more accurate arm than I would ever have) and the inning was over.

My father must have seen something in me, something in my performance on the mound that gave him no hesitation about the position I should play. I never pitched again. But you know what? My statistics to this day showed that I pitched two thirds of an inning, gave up no hits, only one walk, had one strike out, and an earned run average of 0.00. No one can ever take that away.

The Year of the Dan: An Open Letter to the Colorado Rockies

I love baseball. When my mind wanders down happy paths (sometimes narrow, sometimes wide) the most expansive areas have a field, a ball, a bat, and nine gloves. I recall as a boy in bed at night, my brother Chris just three feet away in his, the tubes glowing in the small green AM radio on the nightstand between us, as baseball poured from its small tinny speaker. The voices of Milo Hamilton and Ernie Johnson doing analysis and play-by-play for the Atlanta Braves.

My brother and I listened to the Braves religiously through the seventies. We welcomed the advent of WTBS with its broadcasts of the games as manna from heaven. Those were lean years for Atlanta, when losing seemed more realizable than winning, and each newly acquired big named pitcher would seemingly buckle to his knees grasping his pitching arm with some injury as soon as they disembarked the plane at Atlanta’s Hartsfield International Airport.

Such a baptism in following the sport should have hardened me to whatever franchise I would migrate to in adult life. But it is a truism that no matter what you have experienced, no matter what you have seen, you haven't seen it all - yet.

I am in Colorado now, and after living here seven years, Colorado was chosen to get an MLB Franchise, the Colorado Rockies. Now the Rockies are celebrating their twentieth year which they are calling "The Year of the Fan." A great idea, but the follow-through has left something to be desired. So far, the only things the fans have to smile about are the inventive and humorous Colorado Rockies television commercials which star some of their season ticket holders.

Going into spring training (the annual rebirth of the religion that is baseball) the Rockies were believed to be in contention for a spot in the post season. Now with the season in full swing (pun intended), the Rockies will be lucky if they do not lose one hundred games, and what was the “Year of the Fan” has become the “Year of the Dan.”

Dan would be Dan O'Dowd, General Manager of the Colorado Rockies, and harbinger of the Rockies’ doom. He has wheeled and dealed this team solidly out of contention in a year dedicated to the people that have supported the team through its highs and lows for twenty years.

Last year the season was crippled by an under performance from its ace Ubaldo Jimenez, the loss of its number two pitcher Jorge Del la Rosa to Tommy John surgery, the mediocrity of the three man in the rotation Jason Hamel, the inconsistency of forth starter Jhoulis Chacin, and a broken neck incurred by fifth man in the rotation Juan Nicasio. "Wisely" the Rockies dumped their ace to the Cleveland Indians for having a poor season, for which they received two good minor league pitchers and an unknown position prospect.

The season ended with many question marks hanging over the Rockies pitching as-well-as having serious needs for the revolving doors at right field, and second and third base. It was time for the Rockies GM to step up to the plate and show more than his lackluster job of previous seasons. Would it be too much foreshadowing if I were to say that Dan O'Dowd struck out looking?

To his credit, O'Dowd made good moves in right field and second base signing veterans Michael Cuddyer and Marco Scutaro. No off season moves were made about third base and so Manager Jim Tracy divided the duty among Gordon Pacheco, Chris Nelson, Jonathon Herera, and DJ LeMahieu.

I really do not want to address the pitching situation, but I have to. In the off season, O'Dowd dealt mediocre Jason Hamel to Baltimore (where he has become the rock of their rotation) for Jeremy Guthrie (he of the 17 losses for 2 of the last 3 seasons). O'Dowd retained the inconsistent Chacin, strong good-natured Juan Nicasio (he of the broken neck), and added to that Jeremy Guthrie, young untested Drew Pomerance, and spring training acquisition forty-nine year old Jamie Moyer (fresh off Tommy John reconstructive elbow surgery). You could almost feel the division quaking in their collective spikes of facing that fearsome five!

Just into the season’s infancy, the first round of disasters struck. Chacin and Nicasio both went on the disabled list and have not seen action since. Guthrie has performed as-well-as a seventeen game loser can be expected to perform. Drew Pomerance was sent to triple A Colrado Springs to work on mechanics, and Jamie Moyer was handed both his cane and his release papers.

In the field, the Rockies lost all star/all world shortstop Troy Tulowiski to what may be a season ending groin injury. This left the infield in chaos and opened the way to expanded micromanaging on the part of Jim Tracy. Tracy decided to share shortstop duties among Scutaro, Chris Nelson, Gordon Pacheco, Jonathon Herrera. Since Scutaro was partially reassigned to short stop, Tracy got to play musical chair at second with Scutaro, Nelson, and LeMaheu.

In case you were thinking that first base is the lone island of sanity in the sea of the infield, Todd Helton (who has done his usual superlative defensive job) is aging and not hitting as-well-as past years, so he is given frequent days off and right fielders Cuddyer and Tyler Colvin (with a dash of let-me-see-which-hat-I-wear-today Pacheco and Yoda-of-the-clubhouse Jason Giambi) alternate on the corner. All this switching around of players is more difficult to follow than Abbot and Costello explaining “Who’s on First.” It is no wonder that our normally high team fielding percentage is suffering. Without stability to the infield, chemistry does not have a chance to form, to gel into the familiar bonds necessary for a 6-3-2 double play, or even sometimes to know where to throw the damn ball.

This juggling act has its effect offensively as well. There is for all practical purposes no fixed batting order save that when the game starts the pitcher bats ninth. Batters are not getting the chance to settle-in to the leadoff spot, or four-hole, or lower half of the order, or wherever. Each place in the batting order requires a different strategy. Shifting personnel around so much weakens the offense that the Rockies can produce (as an example, the Rockies have been outscored this year in the second and third innings by approximately sixty runs).

Back in the land of the pitcher, the Rockies moved Guthrie to the bullpen, brought up Alex White along with rookie Christian Friedrick to start, Josh Outman was moved to the starting rotation from the bullpen, and resigned Jeff Francis to the club. Around this core, Jim Tracy implemented a league perplexing four man rotation. Based on the theory that the less opposing teams see of the Rockies’ starters, the better the chance the Rockies’ starters can put the team in a position to win a game. Because of the short time between starts, starters are limited to just seventy-five pitches with the hope they can make it through the fifth inning, then the long reliever can take over, and the holder and the closer can then play their parts – I call it “pitching by committee.”

What actually happened when this system was implemented was that both Alex White and Josh Outman were shelled out of their first starts within the first few innings, ultimately resulting in both being sent down to the minors. Drew Pomerance was brought back up, and Jeremy Guthrie was given another shot at the rotation. Pomerance has performed well, though due to arm soreness took a drubbing last time out. Jeremy Guthrie had not changed his shaky ways and was shuttled off to the Kansas City Royals for Jonathon Sanchez (1-6 when acquired, 1-7 after his first outing in a Rockies jersey). The primary bright spot for the Rockies pitching has been the surprising play of Jeff Francis who has pitched consistently and has been a solid veteran presence on the field. Francis however is no longer an ace, and is better suited as an anchor of a rotation and not its best performer.

If it is confusing finding your way through this maze of names, positions, and moves, it has been doubly so to the fans who root against the tide of crumbling hope for the Rockies. As I mentioned, I am a veteran of witnessing promising melt down, but the dreams-turned-to-dust of the Rockies’ season is like nothing I have seen in my more than four decades of being a baseball fan.

This year I have watched both the moves by the GM and the juggling by the Manager and have found both wanting. I join the multitude of Rockies’ fans, lantern in hand, searching in the dark not for an honest man, but an honest assessment of the team. I am looking for ownership to say more than, “Man, we really aren’t that good, are we?” The fans need and deserve decisive movement, decisive change. I am not talking a sacrificial response such as changing the hitting coach, or sending the pitching coach to be special assistant to the GM. I am talking about replacing Dan O’Dowd and Jim Tracy immediately.

The position players we have are fine, and look to grow into the high ceilings that scouts have predicted for them. The starting rotation is a disaster and needs complete reconstruction, but I am unsure who is available that would make a significant difference at this point. Much of the damage is done this season, but ownership can at least make the infield more stable, ownership can at least give the batters fixed spots in the order, and ownership can show the fans that it cares about putting out a quality product by firing O’Dowd and Tracy. Any argument revolving around direction or stability to this move would be spurious and hollow as ownership had no difficulty in removing Clint Hurdle as Manager at mid-season when that change was required.

The fans are still coming to the park, the fans are still following the broadcasts, and the fans are still loyal. Show them that they are justified in this love and trust, pay more than lip service to the “Year of the Fan,” move out O’Dowd and Tracy, and move on to what this team can be.

TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALL GAME

Opening Day and the Starma Express

I think that it is no big surprise that my sport is baseball. It embodies not just entertainment for me, but so many intrinsics. This year however we stepped across the line into the metaphysical (kind of appropriate for the first home game of the season).

The plans for attending the Rockie’s home opener were as they should be, because they included myself, my wife, and our best buddy Susan the baseball slut. Jean-Marie had a meeting in Denver prior to the game which left Susan and I not only to our own devices but standing in some nameless intersection on the south end of Denver. This was best for Jean-Marie’s schedule and it was no big deal for Susan and I, as we could easily catch the light rail to down town and the stadium.

Once out of the car, we set off in the general direction of the nearest light rail stop, but knowing the direction in general is completely different than finding that thing specifically. Crossing the street we were separated from where we wanted to go by a campus of identical view blocking high tech industry buildings.

Shrugging we ventured forth hoping we were picking the right direction but having plenty of time to mess up. It was at this point while walking and discussing our confusion that an overly cheery voice from behind us called out, “The light rail? You guys going to the game?”

Turning we saw that the bubbly voice belonged to a young professional lady with an id badge dangling around her neck and a cup of Starbuck’s coffee in hand almost as big as she was. “You don’t need to go that way, just go this way and follow the road, then go between the two white buildings to a path that runs along the interstate and you will find the light rail.”

All the while I am thinking, “Go to the light…rail” and smiling inside. We thanked her profusely and she laughed and said we were lucky to be going to the game. From the way she quickly bounced out of sight, it was obvious that this was not her first cup of coffee for the day and probably would not be her last. We had a good laugh the rest of the day at her directions as there was not just a single pair of white buildings but many sets of them before us. Which had she meant? It didn’t matter, we had a more specific general direction, and she had her coffee – the circle of life.

Our auras had just been given a boost by an enlightened being high on life and caffeine to the point of achieving that blissful state simply known as Starvana. It was from that rarified place that she graced us with her wisdom and shared with us some good Starma earning some for herself in the process.

Writing Cowboys and Baseball Sluts

Starma in hand, we found the train and boarded a car full of Rockies faithful bound for Coors Field. Being some two and a half hours before the start of the game, this was a good omen. In no time the train dropped us near the 16th street mall and we grabbed a free shuttle from there to a point in the opposite direction from where Susan thought the ball park out to be. This is unusual as Susan general has the best sense of direction of anyone I know, but she was still recovering from a stomach and respiratory illness, so I generously cut her some slack.

From the bus we walked down 20th to Blake, and from the moment we set foot on that path we caught our first glimpse of Coors Field that we would have this season. It was all I could do to hold back the tears at the sight of my Cathedral and my expectations for the mass that is baseball with its communion of hotdogs and beer. As it was, I found myself blocking traffic in the middle of the street so I could get a picture of my first glimpse this season of those hallowed grounds.

With Mickey’s little hand on 11 and big hand on 6 we made our arrival only to find the stadium gates locked and guarded by the purple clad elderly for another half hour. I think we could have taken them in a fair fight, but numbers were not in our favor and besides, getting smacked by a walker could leave a mark. We would find something else to do before the noon time gate unlatching.

We talked it over and decided to head to the south side of the stadium and find “The Brick,” which coincidently not only is the item purchased by Susan and her sisters to honor their grandpa, but was also her grandpa’s nickname (coincidence? I think not). But before we could embark on this quest, I spied a familiar form out of the corner of my eye. Turning, I couldn’t believe it. There, walking by the gate we had just left was none other than Rocky Mountain News columnist, and Baseball Hall-of-Fame journalist Tracey Ringlesby! (Perfect name for an old-school baseball reporter)

I had to get his picture, so I raced over and yelled, “Hey, Tracey! Can I get your picture?” The large man in the trademark cowboy hat turned and grinned and said sure. So I snapped it, and then he came over shook my hand, took my camera and handed it to one of the purpled stadium workers and said we should get one together. I called Susan over and he quickly moved between us and said, “I want to stand by you,” as he put his arm around Susan. Tracey and the Slut, how could this day get better?

The Starma Just Keeps on Rolling

Riding high on our brush with fame, we made it over to the bricks and not only managed to find the one Susan and her sisters bought, but we also found the one Susan’s cousins had purchased to honor “Brick” Nesbit. The tale of the bricks is a Starma story best saved for another time. We took the obligatory photos, and made our way up to the nearest gate. The big hand had a fast approaching date with the little hand straight up, and with that the unlocking of the gates to the hordes hungry for baseball after a long, cold winter devoid of any real sports.

We made it past the elderly who were the first line of defense against terrorist and opposing fans at the stadium without incidence. Without hesitation we visited the nearest “Beers of the World” cart, and each got a cup and walked over to a portal to look at the sacred green of the home of the Colorado Rockies. We looked down, seeing players playing catch, and taking batting practice. Susan wondered if they would let us down the lower level to watch the practice, and I said it couldn’t hurt to ask (all the while fearing that since we held tickets for upper deck that it could hurt to ask).

It seemed, however, Starma still ruled the day as the nice lady simply stepped aside and we went down to sit behind the third base dugout. The sun was hot, the day was gorgeous, and we saw the lightening quick hands of Todd Helton giving a clinic to anyone who wanted to watch him in the batting cage. It was awesome, what else is there to say. We just drank it all in, occasionally annotated by the usher who filled us in on little known ground rules, the heated turf, and Coors field drainage (apparently it had been a long lonely winter for him as well). Finally we drained our beers, and went up to the concourse to await Jean-Marie and then to find our seats.

The Pink Crew In Force

Jean-Marie arrived at the stadium with plenty of time until the start of the game even though she was forced to park in Wyoming. With hugs all around we found the escalator and ultimately the upper deck. Jean-Marie already had a gin and tonic that I had waiting on her, and now it was time to get food for all and some more beer.

With hands full and rubbling stomachs, we climbed up the stairs of our section up to our seats, and what to our wondering eyes did appear – Starma! Our seats were in the purple row signifying the place in the stadium that was exactly 5280 feet above sea level, how cool is that. If you have to sit up high, might as well make everything about it memorable.

Seats nestled beneath our tushes, drinks well on their way to being downed, and hotdogs long since gone to our bellies, we talked of seasons past and the season before us. We could feel the energy and the electricity coalesce until they ignited in a passionate discharge as 50,000 people rose to sing the national anthem, revere a flag literally as big as the outfield, and welcome baseball back for a new season to the mile high city. We couldn’t wait for the first pitch.

I will not bore anyone with the play-by-play. It is sufficient to say that De La Rosa put on a superb pitching display, the Rockies bats were lively, and Tulo’s butt was stared at continuously throughout the game by Jean-Marie and Susan. Given the ideal weather, and the winning game, the day was perfect. It was perfect right down to the group picture of Jean-Marie, Susan, and I with our now traditional pink attire. It was perfect right down to the young man in the row below us (the row NOT 5280 feet above sea level row) asking me, “Why do you wear a pink hat?’ It was perfect to be at the game, to witness the seasonal rebirth, and to be sharing it with people I love. It was Starma, Starvana, spring, and perfection. It was time to be no longer of this world for three hours and escape into the wonder of the Game.

The Colorless Hammer

There was a time in baseball before high tech training and the advent of steroids when records were broken not on the fly, but through hard work, dedication, and longevity in the sport. I am specifically reminded of “Hammerin’ Hank,” Henry Aaron. I was not even born when Hank started playing professional ball for the then Milwaukie Braves, and was almost 12 when he reached his milestone 715th homer to break Ruth’s record. It was never a question that Hank would go into the Hall of Fame as he finished his career with a .305 average, 755 home runs, 3771 hits, and 2297 rbi’s. Those are incredible statistics. But it’s not the numbers I remember most about Hank, it is that he played the Game well, and that he played it right.

I grew up in Orangeburg, SC., a smallish town in the heart of South Carolina (a state criminally without a major league ball club). The lack of a hometown team left my older brother Chris and I to play the field as it were in choosing our favorite club. I had several years that I was an A’s fan because I was on a little league team called the A’s. My brother and I liked the Phillies as well, they were a dynamic team when we were growing up led by an aggressive player by the name of Larry Boa. We loved to listen to Phillies games at night on our little radio. But without a doubt, when growing up our favorite team was the Atlanta Braves. Lying in bed we would have the company of the glow of our little green dial radio between our two beds and the voices of Milo Hamilton and Ernie Johnson as the Braves played season after season.

I suppose there were better teams we could have followed, in the late sixties and through the seventies, the Braves lead by politically incorrect mascot Chief Knock-a-Homa (later joined by even more incorrect Princess Poke-a-Homa) never failed to disappoint. Seasons were long arduous affairs despite having Hank Aaron and the supporting cast of Ralf the roadrunner Garr, Gary Matthews, Darrel Evens, and Phil Nekro. Most of the pitchers for the braves were not known for being able to hit the broad side of a barn, and so seasons would come and go most often with more losses than wins. Still Chris and I loved listening to them and Milo and Ernie became like family, I still miss their voices.

During this love affair with the Braves, it would have been impossible not to have Hammerin’ Hank as my favorite. Hell, by the time I started really paying attention to baseball, Hank already had over 400 home runs. There was nothing flashy about Hank, he played the game and played it well and never drew attention to himself with proclamations or antics – just hard work, skill, and desire. Back then, that was all that it took. After all as Yogi has said, “Baseball is ninety percent mental and the other half physical.”

It was a pleasure to listen to and to watch Hank play the game as few have. He was always a lesson being taught. As he got closer to the record, he was the pulse of baseball, he gave the Game an elevated life, and at no time did he take advantage of that celebrity. He will always be someone who’s swing and smile stood out more than any show of ego.

But when I reflect on Hank, I get deeper impressions, more important insights. We are in the age of the first “black” president, we just saw the first “woman” win the Oscar for best director, and over recent years this era has seen the first Hispanic this, and the first Oriental that, and one minority achievement after another. But look back to Hank, he started playing baseball before civil rights. He began the Game when it was still difficult to be black and play baseball. Hank’s career spanned the era of civil rights, hate, and desegregation. Yes, during his time he did have to endure a lot of hatred, and march through a great deal of adversity, but he never made it the focus of his life or used it as a crutch or banner. With the swing of a bat, he made most people forget (at least for a moment) the color of his skin, and instead think of the amazing achievement of a man. Hank demonstrated by example that petty concerns like a man’s race pales in comparison to a single act in a simple game, that prejudice really has no relevance. Thank you Hank not only for being my baseball hero, but being a larger hero in showing me that if there are more important things in life than baseball, then there are infinitely more important things in life than maintaining prejudices.

2 Days 23 Hours 48 minutes

I guess it has become debatable in American society that baseball is America's past time. In an era of organic weight conscientiousness, and failing US automakers, has the refrain "Baseball, Hotdogs, Apple Pie, and Chevrolet" become a death knell rather than a rallying call?

I don't think so. Baseball is not my past time, it is not my passion, it is something more ethereal (and becomes even more so the older I get). In my middle age, I am thrilled by the prospect that we are on the verge of another spring training, that in fewer than three days pitchers and catchers will be reporting to Arizona and Florida to partake in this ritual of Americana. Childhood far behind me, once again childhood beckons me through baseball. Year after year I feel this, my own private phoenix rising from the flames. And it is not a solitary thrill, as I can reach out to my wife/best friend, and my baseball buddy, and my children, and my elder brother, and the larger brotherhood of baseball in screaming out, "I can't wait!"

It is because of the unique nature of baseball that it is not only a love but a shared experience. The Game represents the seasons. The arrival of camp and the start of the season is spring, the blooming of life awakening. By the allstar break, it is summer, the heating up of the run for the fall classic. By the playoffs, excitement has peaked, but the pangs of loss are beginning as I know the season is winding down and it is autumn. Winter follows, crawling, a barren time of no baseball filled only with thoughts of surviving and making it to spring training.

In it's way, Baseball is also religion. Like the Catholic Church which is uniquely known among sects and religions as the Church, so Baseball is uniquely known among all sports as the Game. As in the often raucous Southern Baptist Church, fans at a baseball game share the cathartic gyrations of euphoric ecstasy at the hitting for the cycle, or the clutch walk off grand slam (Spilly, Spilly, Spilly!). In Charismatic churches, believers will spontaneously break into speaking in tongues, like the baseball fan who will spout endless statistics at a moments notice and without warning. People believe in the Game, and die a little when the Game let's them down, because the Game should be above it all. And the Game has its saints, and like religious saints they are revered most not for their talent, and not for their stats, but from "doing it right."

Baseball: An analogy of life, a representation of the passage of the seasons, a religion unto itself. Baseball: Now 2 days, 22 hours, and 28 minutes until pitchers and catchers report. Baseball: I can't wait.