Did you know that baseball has a smell?
It doesn’t smell of one particular thing. It’s not just sweat,
pine tar or unwashed uniforms. If Glade created a room freshener called
“Opening Day,” you’d need essence of a well-worn mitt, old cleats encrusted
with infield clay and the leathery aroma of the ball, itself.
I’d buy cans of
it and spray it all over the house.
The smell of baseball makes me remember a brownstone in Brooklyn, packed to the gills with baseball-nutty immigrants who grew to love (and become
slightly obsessed with) the most American of pastimes.
It will be no surprise to learn that my family loved the Dodgers,
named -- legend has it -- due to the fancy footwork necessary to “dodge”
getting flattened by a trolley car in the busy borough we called home. But that
was a bit before my time.
I was raised on the New York Mets.
My grandpa and uncle, often joined by my mother, grandma and a
constant stream of aunts and cousins, spent
hours watching them and cursing them but, really, loving them in front of one
of the first color TVs in the neighborhood. Housed in its own huge veneer cabinet -- complete
with doily and candy dish filled with colorful, cellophane wrapped sour balls -- the lure of that green field and the blue sky above it, showcased on that convex
screen, soon sang its siren song.
How I loved these guys--each so different but so good! |
Yes, Ump. I was safe. |
Cocooned in a space where nothing could harm me more than the
tickle of the popcorn my uncle might toss and then pretend he hadn’t, I spent
many happy hours and, soon, I, too, genuinely loved the game.
And, specifically, I loved the aspect of baseball that many people
criticize--the length and pace of those nine long innings. A baseball game has no time
limit---it takes however long it damn well takes.
Accept it, people.
But baseball isn’t slow, it’s measured.
It doesn’t drag, it’s nuanced.
Bursting with the constant possibility of excitement, we delighted
in the suspense of an apparently lazy inning only to be catapulted from our
languor by the sudden drama of a great play or thrilling hit.
You said it, George. |
Those moments, however rewarding, are second to the epic arguments
about the faults, foibles and strengths of the players…the bonding over hatred
of the umps (based on their most recent call)…and plotting Draconian revenge
for heinous trades (Tom Seaver in 1977 is the perfect example. I still haven’t
recovered). We fretted over injuries, memorized stats and, simply put, united
over true affection for a home team
Play-offs and pennants were icing on the cake (or should I say
“field”) but when the Mets won their first world series in 1969, it changed our
lives in an almost biblical sense. David defeated Goliath that year and the
following season I began to nag my mother to take me (I was eleven) on the two
hour subway ride to Shea Stadium.
My first time there was so memorable that I remember exactly what
I was wearing, that I stood on the final leg of the trip so to fully experience
the elevated Number 7 swing into the curve of the holy ground of Flushing, New
York and that we sat* next to a cheerful man who, when he bought his family ice
cream, bought some for us, too.
I defy any artist to mix a more beautiful shade of green than the
sunlit emerald of the outfield. Revealed after winding through Shea’s concrete tunnels,
perfumed by the pungency of absorbing years of spilled beer and wafting smoke from
grilled Italian sausage, I remember gasping as I stepped forth on that first
visit and, blinking in the sunshine, saw it in person for the first
time.
Shea. I shall miss you forever. |
I agree, Yogi. |
Aware that my passion for the game is flagging (it's not so much fun
watching alone), Tom and Charlie have encouraged me to rediscover my interest
so, I’ve begun watching again. The ghosts of my grandpa and uncle stop by
occasionally but, mostly, I’m by myself--eager to email the kids afterward about that
great play, hit, save or infuriating error.
Can I recreate the magic of my youth? It’s doubtful but, surely,
there is more magic to be made.
I still love it. And it must love me back because baseball still
makes me feel good. Despite all its changes and new faces, a home run is still
exciting, the umps are still blind and the grass is still that crazy green.
I can still smell it. Let’s see what the season holds…..
*For you Shea fanatics, we sat in the green seats on that first visit but in the sunshine, not under the dreaded over-hang.
Put him him the Hall of Fame!!!!! |