Touching Base with America's Pastime

We were so close to the players, you could almost touch them.  It had been at least a dozen years since my last baseball game.  The setting sun splashed San Diego’s Petco Stadium as the lights were turned on.  We found ourselves betwixt and between natural and artificial light. These young men, these baseball players, loosened up on the field and around the batting cage. In the pre-game hoopla, there were boys and girls, winners of some contest or another, on the field shaking hands with the players, seeking and finding autographs, a news crew setting up; the color guard and singers all ready to usher in these Boys of Summer.  We tucked in our feet letting other spectators squeeze past us and take their seats.  If they spilled a few drops of beer, some popcorn on us, that was OK.  It was all good.

This was the nicest seat from which I had ever watched a baseball game.  I have to give my daughter, Alexa, credit since her company had provided her and a guest (her Dad) tickets for the game against the San Francisco Giants.  We were sitting in the front row of the field boxes, slightly favoring the third base line from home plate.  As a child, a neighbor had taken me and his son to Yankee Stadium where we sat by first base and watched the Yankees host the Oakland Athletics—they of the blinding yellow and green uniforms.  My eyes were as wide as saucers then but I still felt the excitement and butterflies of the first pitch this night.  The pitcher, a lefty, reached back and sent a “heater” down the middle of the plate.  The ball thudded into the catcher’s mitt like a muffled explosion—strike one!  

How had I lost contact with baseball over the years?  Maybe this thing called ‘life’ kept getting in the way.  Maybe, I bought into the argument that the game had become a bit too slow.  Whatever it was, I felt sorry that I had not kept in touch.  I suddenly saw the young men on the field not as lofty heroes from my childhood but as mere mortals who had worked very hard to achieve their dreams. I felt proud of them—the Mexican third baseman, the Venezuelan pitcher, the American catcher and second basemen.  I was rooting for all of them this night.

The game started off explosively for the Giants when the handsome second baseman (my daughter’s opinion) with the last name d’Arnaud, sent a towering fly ball over the wall in left. Just like that, the Giants were up 3-0. But the Padres were not out of it and over several innings they chiseled away at the Giant lead.  By the sixth inning, the Padres were down only a run. Anything could happen.

The players were likeable—one had long hair, a beard and could have easily been mistaken for a steel worker.  Another kid nicknamed “Cutch,” once famous for his dreadlocks, had cut his hair and looked like he could step into a suit and tie and walk into any boardroom.  Cutch had an effortless swing, made consistent contact with the ball and was a serious threat on the bases.  When he got on base, and began to lean toward second, you felt the tension—the cat and mouse game with the pitcher.  I began to feel the game creep in. 

I turned to my daughter and said, “I wasn’t half bad at this game.  I played for a Little League  team in Brooklyn (NY) called Good Shepherd; we won the CYO New York City championship by shutting out the Queens champs, St. Mel’s, 6-0.  I played right field and could always get a single or move a player over with a bunt.”

“Really?” she seemed impressed.  ‘What’s a bunt?”

“ I loved the game.  I began as a Mets fan, witnessed their transformation to the “Amazin Mets” in 1969, followed the Giants when they had the “Willies”—Mays and McCovey--and finally found a home with the Yankees.  I had an uncle who bought me a Willie Mays glove and another who took me to Hermann’s (Sporting Goods store) and bought me my first pair of cleats…which I polished and shined before every game.”

Her smile widened; I found the conversation therapeutic.

During the sixth inning, the announcer asked the crowd to stand and sing, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” I belted out my finest rendition and left my daughter giggling .  She was enjoying my enjoyment on this special night.  

“It’s a tradition that Grandpa handed down to us,” I explained.

I couldn’t have asked for anything more—an exciting game being played under the lights in the company of my daughter.  I had eaten my “dog” but, now a Senior citizen, I passed on the beer and opted for the diet Coke. 

We left at the end of seven innings with the Padres still down by one.  Alexa pleaded with me to stay longer saying that we might miss something.  But I reminded her that she had work in the morning and I still needed to drive back to Los Angeles.   

“Thanks,” she said, “for the daddy-daughter time.”

“Thank you, Alexa, for bringing me back to this game.”

On the drive home, I remembered the baseball diamonds in Marine Park, the breeze rustling the maple and oak leaves, the Louisville slugger on my shoulder, the pitcher staring me down from the mound.  I looked toward the third base line at my coach, Old Pete, as he reached to his belt for the signal.  It was time to lay down another bunt and move our guy over from second to third. I was smiling again.

PS. Oh, and by the way, Alexa was right.  Something did happen after we left.  The Padres tied it in the eighth only to fall in 12 innings to the Giants by a score of 5-3. How exciting!