Originally posted at The Reviews Are In
When I was 5 years old I fell in love for the very first time. I don’t remember exactly how it started, probably with a small crush and then as the exposure grew and we spent more time together things blossomed and things became much more serious.
No, I’m not talking about the little girl 1 grade older than me that I followed around as often as possible at recess and in the hallways.
I’m talking about baseball.
This isn’t news to those of you who know me. Baseball is clearly my first love. I geek out about a lot of things and I love a lot of sports. But nothing compares to the way I feel about baseball.
When I was small my parents would take my brother and I to my grand-parents’ house to visit. And in the summer the only place that you were going to find my grand-dad was in the basement, with the lights off, watching baseball. In fact, there were many afternoons that 1 game would be on TV and be muted while a 2nd game would be on the radio. That was confusing for a young kid. But I loved it. I would sit there for hours on end watching (in silence, that was the rule) as the players on TV did their thing. That’s where I learned both the basics and the subtle nuances. That basement was my classroom.
I loved that basement and spent a lot of time down there when I moved into that house at 18. I can tell you exactly where everything was, the TV in the front left corner, the wood stove in the front right. The 2 lazy boys ¾’s of the way back in the room, the one on the left for my grand-dad and the one on the right for whomever was visiting. And at the back of the room, against the wall, was an old couch, older than me that we sat on if we weren’t on my dad’s knee.
That room is where I started falling in love with baseball.
Around that time I also started playing organized ball. My mom and dad were my first coaches and looking back I have NO IDEA how they managed to do it. The team was a bunch of 5-7 year old kids. Most of who had little to no idea what they were doing on the field. I’m sure at times it was the stereo-typical scene with kids picking dandelions in the outfield and running the wrong way around the bases. But I don’t remember those details. I remember playing first base. I remember practicing. I remember losing. A lot. And I remember having fun. I loved it. I loved my glove. I loved my little red wooden bat. I loved being at the ball park. I loved spending the time with my family. I loved everything about those summers.
As I grew older I fell deeper and deeper. I spent my allowance money on baseball cards. I watched games on TV. I fell asleep listening to radio broadcasts. There was nothing that would stop me from being with baseball. She meant the world to me. The sooner that everyone figured that out, the better.
I practiced more, with my mom or dad or brother or friends or alone. I threw a ball against the wall and caught it. I threw a ball up in the air and hit it. I did everything that I could be become a better player. And the best part was that it rarely felt like work. Nobody had to force me to do it. I did because I loved it.
True story: I chipped my front tooth when I threw a ball straight up in the air, lost it in the sun and caught it with my mouth. It hurt. But it didn’t stop me from loving.
My mom even tells a story from my childhood about me telling everyone that when I grew up I was going to be a policeman and a first baseman. But neither of my employers could know about the other. I have no idea why it needed to be a secret – but I think that just makes the story more awesome!
I know that this whole post is really just a love letter to baseball in disguise. And trust me – it could go on for a very, very long time.
In fact, one of the bullet points on my writing to-do list says something about a baseball book.
But for now I think you get the point.
And as for the end of the story – there isn’t one – not yet. But if I were to guess I would say that this is a love that goes on forever.
