For the love of the game
by Ashley Mondale, English Teacher
April 13, 2010
“Are we not in America? Isn't baseball America's favorite pastime?” – from For Love of the Game
Many things signal spring: snow melts, robins reappear, crocuses and daffodils pop up, the smell of the air changes (for better or worse, especially if you’re on the fourth floor!). But for me, one thing truly announces the arrival of spring – baseball season.
I love baseball, and, if I may be so bold, I believe it is my all-time favorite sport. I know that some people would disagree, and I fully accept and respect their opinions. I thoroughly enjoy Friday night and Sunday football. I enjoy the nail-biting thrill of hockey. I appreciate the strength and skill tennis demands. Gymnastics amazes me because I could never imagine my body twisting and hurtling through the air like Shawn Johnson’s does. I hold my breath during a race where Michael Phelps or Apolo Ohno competes. I stand in awe of Tiger Woods, more for his prowess on the golf course, but also for his skill at amassing lady “friends”! Even though I have no clue as to how or why it is played, I was glued to MSNBC’s coverage of curling during this winter’s Olympic games. But for me, baseball (and that includes softball) is my sport.
Growing up, I played softball. Each winter I eagerly anticipated sign-ups when my mom would go to the township building and sign up my sister and me, bringing home a box of candy bars for each of us to hustle at school. I loved rummaging through our garage to find my glove, cleats, and last year’s team hat. I breathed in the sweet and salty scent that was held in the webbing of my glove. I slid my hand into my glove, where each of my digits fit perfectly, each finger gently broken in so that it held my hand in a gentle caress that had taken years of rubbing, binding, and using to make just right.
I loved the thrill of the game. For seven years I honed my skills on that dusty diamond. I played first base, which was odd since I am not left handed. I loved that position. I loved the thrill I got each time the batter made contact, knowing that my job was to get to the bag and do everything I could to make sure the batter didn’t get any farther than I did. I grinned devilishly as I positioned my body between the runner and the bag, extending my arm to snag the throw.
Baseball is a game of skill and intelligence. Each player must know the play because if there is even just one error, the whole game could be a loss. Those on the field need to understand the batter in the box – where that person hit last time up, how he or she pulls when swinging. The pitcher must know the signs and how to read each batter. The catcher, perhaps the heartbeat of the team, must know how to read the pitcher, the batter and the players on the field. The infielders must learn the field, the way the grass or dirt takes the ball, the body language of the batter and his or her fellow teammates. The outfielders must analyze the wind, sun and batter. Baseball is a game of thinking, of strategy, of brains.
Because I grew up in this corner of Western Pennsylvania, my hearts bleeds black and gold. I believe there is no greater football team than the Steelers, no greater hockey team than the Pens. I believe the Rooney family represents the American dream in every aspect – a dirt poor Irish family which became a major player in business. I believe Mario Lemieux is a god, a titan, an angel. And in my heart of hearts, I truly believe that the Pittsburgh Pirates can be great again.
I can’t argue with the statistics that prove year after year that the Pirates are a miserable excuse for a major league team. I don’t believe the owners promote the best interest of the players and fans. When the story broke earlier this year that Lemieux was interested in the buying the Pirates, my heart literally leaped with joy. Perhaps, I thought, we could finally have a team worthy of our great city. My hopes were soon dashed when the report came that the “news” was a just a rumor, but I still cling to the hope that great 66 will save us from this dismal succession of baseball seasons. I also cling to the hope that the Pirates will be phoenix that will rise from the ashes of losing season and reclaim the title of World Champion.
But until then, I’ll still be a fan. I’ll watch games on FSN, listen to them on the radio as I drive and see them first hand from the cheap seats at PNC Park. I’ll enjoy the thrill that runs down my spine every time I hear the ball make contact with the bat. I’ll breathe in deeply each time I’m at a ball field to submerse myself in the aroma of the sport: the dirt, the leather, the sweat, the freshly cut grass.
I love baseball. I know there are a multitude of things wrong with the sport: steroids/human growth hormones and salaries, for example. But this is America and baseball is our game. And for me, nothing signals spring and summer more than love of the game.
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