Baseball Fever

Spring means different things to different people: rebirth, growth, change, shorts and tank tops. For me, it means baseball. I love baseball. The smell of old leather, the crack of a wooden bat (or the ting of aluminum), the white of the bases, the green of the outfield, the sliding, the running, the calling "I got it!!!," the blooper reels when overpaid, overgrown boys forget all their training and crash into each other because they didn't respect the other's "I got it!!!"

I grew up in a farm family where work was much more highly-valued than play. Baseball, however, was something different. Baseball was an acceptable past-time. During coffee break we kids would play catch or home-run derby, and for a couple minutes Dad and Grandpa would join in.

Father's Day parties and summer birthday parties weren't complete without the big baseball game. Age didn't matter. Everyone played. Old shingles marked the bases in the middle of the newly-shorn hayfield. Little kids swayed beneath the weight of the bat while the pitcher crept as close as he could to give them a chance to make contact. Dads fumbled while fielding little dribblers, eventually throwing to first just late enough for the runner to be safe.

Grandpa, his arms still burly from years of milking cows, would saunter up to the plate, limping slightly from an old broken hip. The outfield would move back. He always managed to hit the ball far enough that his gimp couldn't prevent him from getting a home run.

Baseball wasn't just relegated to playtime, though. Many were the nights we'd be grading apples in the barn, the pickup truck's doors wide open so we could hear the radio broadcasting a Red Sox game. Packing tomatoes, picking corn, and listening to baseball all seemed to go hand-in-hand.

To be honest, I still prefer listening to the games on the radio. The sound of Joe Castiglione describing the weather conditions and the uniforms--and where he had dinner the night before--always brings back that childlike innocence and delight.

The only thing that can surpass it is taking my own kids to McCoy on a Sunday afternoon. (Larry Lucchino--NO NEW PARK!) We all go in carrying our gloves; I've had mine nearly 3 decades now. My 2- and 4-year olds gape at the giant murals, not yet aware of their significance, but impressed all the same.

We settle into our seats, elbows touching the people beside us. John Fogarty and I do a duet of "Centerfield," and my kids roll their little eyes begging, "Mom, stop singing!" They scan the seats, hoping for a glimpse of Paws and Sox. It's a different story when "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" starts, though. My kids know all the words, and they belt them out at the top of their lungs, drawing smiles from the grown-ups around them.

There's a down-home camaraderie at the ballpark. Well, at McCoy, anyway. On my first trip to Fenway I was about 8, and some inebriated gentlemen in front of us kept yelling at my siblings and me because we were cheering too loudly. Really?? Too loudly??? At a ball game???? Give me a break.

But it's different at McCoy. One day, a man a few rows behind us caught a foul ball. He'd noticed my son in his Red Sox warm-up suit and his light curls spilling out from under his Red Sox cap. Suddenly he passed the ball down to my son. I'm not sure who was more excited: me or my son. That's a special ball. We don't play with that ball; we treasure it.

So when I went online this spring to sign up my son for T-Ball, I was disappointed. He was two weeks too young. He'd be really good at T-Ball. He throws hard and straight. He hits with authority and power. And boy, does the kid like running the bases.

Watching him in the backyard with his sister, however, I'm realizing that perhaps an extra year is not a bad idea. Like me, he loves baseball. But right now he's getting the chance to love it on his terms: hitting when he feels like it, pitching when he feels like it, running the bases when he feels like it, coaching his little sister when he feels like it.

I am reminded of three little kids growing up in the '80's, playing catch under the maple trees, inventing their own three-way versions of the game, and developing a love that has lasted. It was a precious time.

 I wouldn't deprive him of that for anything.