No matter how bleak things in this country seem to get, as the economy limps and Congress circa 2009 looks an awful lot like Congress circa 2008, 2007, 2006 and so on, as tornadoes rip through Oklahoma and Hawaii, of all places, we can all look to something that Walt Whitman once said will “repair these losses and be a blessing to us.”
Baseball.
Pitchers and catchers report Saturday for Spring Training, and even though I should know better given how my beloved Cincinnati Reds haven’t enjoyed a winning season since Clinton was president and I was a junior at Elizabethtown College, I keep looking at their roster and see good omens for a possible playoff run. I’m sure by June I’ll be of a different opinion, but that is one aspect about baseball that makes it divine - maybe, just maybe, the stars will align this year, and our team and not someone else’s will hoist the World Series trophy. Maybe …
Right Phillies fans?
I bet seeing that never gets old.
But I’m sick over how the 2009 season is beginning with the black cat of steroids scandals crossing its path before Spring Training even starts. My fists are clenched. I could care less about Michael Phelps and the bong toked ’round the world. At least he didn’t cheat the way Alex Rodriguez did. At least he didn’t lie the way Miguel Tejada did. We haven’t even had a session of pepper along the first base line in Florida or Arizona yet, and already baseball feels old, worn out, riddled, too stupid and selfish for its own good.
And yet … the sun’s coming out soon to sweep winter away and bring us freshly cut green grass, the crunchof cleats on dirt, the pop of the fastball in the catcher’s mitt, the warm breeze out of centerfield. I’ve had enough of A-Roid and Tejada. Give me the chalk lines, the bubblegum dust coating Topps baseball cards, the musty aroma of a new leather glove, the satisfaction of nabbing tickets to a game. I already have mine for the Cincinnati-Philadelphia series, thanks to a friend who’s a season ticket holder. Might even go home tonight and take the replica Reds jersey out of the closet, just to look at it, and think baseball.
For me as a sports fan, baseball and the Reds are all I really have left. I was a diehard Notre Dame football fan as a kid, but as I’ve gotten older - and since chose a different college - I don’t have the kind of emotional attachment that an Irish alum would have. Cincinnati doesn’t have an NBA team, and I’m sorry … getting riled up for the NHL’s Columbus Blue Jackets doesn’t feel natural. Let’s not talk about the Bengals (criminally the Bungals). So my last bastion of hope every year are the Reds, and for eight straight seasons they haven’t cracked 81-81. You know what, though. I don’t care. I keep coming back. History suggests this team will rise again the way they did in 1919, 1939 and ‘40, the Big Red Machine of the 1970s and the greatest World Series upset to ever end in a sweep during 1990 (take that Oakland!). Besides, the Cincinnati chili tastes best at the ballpark, and if the team’s lousy, I can always sit in the stands and watch the riverboats float by on the Ohio. Love summer. Love the ballpark. Love baseball.
Hope springs eternal. The economy is in a mire, observing politics can be like watching bratty kids in an unsupervised playground. But baseball’s back, and that feels good.
This weekend is Valentine’s, so of course the soon-to-be Mrs. Alison Pidgeon has my attention. But I might sneak a peak at the baseball news. Things just seem so sublime in Florida and Arizona this time of year while we here suffer through the bleak, gray winter weeks. Ever been to Spring Training? Other than a Jimmy Buffett concert, you will never find a more relaxed, easygoing atmosphere. Palm trees beyond the outfield. Cacti along the left field line. People seem to get along better at Spring Training. Beer, hot dogs, sun tans, perennial hope for a good season. And the ballpark is an infield throw from the beach or the mysterious, saguaro-dotted Sonoran desert. No other sport has the kind of preseason baseball does.
Hope springs eternal … again.
