Dreams of Fields

Baseball season is over.

Those are tough words to hear myself say every year. Although I haven't said them yet this year, the time is coming closer and I can already feel the grey months of winter crowding around me, taunting me, trying to make me think that hockey will suffice. Nothing against hockey mind you, I like the game, but Richard,Hull,Orr,Plante,& Howe, just don't roll off my tongue like Ruth,Gehrig,Mays,Mantle,& Aaron.

I am approaching 50 years of baseball memories in my lifetime, not to mention the memories that I have made in my head from the history of the game. It's an old, stale statement, but no other sport lends itself to complete understanding of what and who came before, than baseball. Of the 5 baseball players I mentioned, 3 of them played in my lifetime. Two of them were in their prime when I was still too young to know the game. Only one of them could be considered playing in his prime during any true sentient time of my life, and that would have been Aaron. Sure I remember Mickey and Willie playing, but their best days were already behind them by the time I sat in wonder of their greatness.

But this isn't about the history of the game. This is just memories of someone who has loved the game since the age of 4. I loved the game for all the right reasons as a 4 year old. It was so green. It was an afternoon at a ballpark with my Dad. It was walking in, sitting in hard wood seats, getting a soda and a hot dog and the two of us watching this game that really didn't make sense to me at the time, yet sensing that what I was watching was so much more intricate that what my young eyes and mind were witnessing.

Then lightning struck me one day as I sat there and I somehow lived to tell about it.

Mantle, The Mick, his body lean and muscular, turned on a pitch with such force the sound struck me before the lightning did. Then I watched as the ball, driven by the force of the lightning bolt that he held in his hands, climbed skyward at a rate that I had never seen anything travel before up to that point in my life, and leave the green field that those men were standing on. They watched also as it flew by them and into the stands in left field. I really had no idea at the time what had just happened but like everyone else in that park, I stood and yelled and cheered for what we were all just witness to.

That was my introduction to baseball.

From there I have traveled down a baseball road filled with so much history that I feel it should have some holy name. The west had the Chisholm Trail. The east had The Great Wagon Road that stretched from Pennsylvania to the Carolina's. There is the Great River Road that runs along both sides of the Mississippi. U.S. Route 40 that ran from Atlantic City to San Francisco. But what do we call a mythic road that is full of actual real-life history? Since baseball is such a touchstone in my life maybe I'll just call it The Diamond Road.

As a child of the transistor radio era, I can remember as if it were yesterday when Bob Gibson dug in against the '64 Yankees. I couldn't have known it then, but that would be the end of the Yankee dynasty as it was known B. S.(Before Steinbrenner) Within 2 years they would be a last place club with an aging Mantle hanging on by a thread finishing a career that should have been glorious, but was instead sad. 1965 brought the first of what have been some of my favorite World Series,the underdogs. The Minnesota Twins came in against the Dodgers as heavy underdogs. After all how do you beat a team with Koufax and Drysdale as your 1-2 starters? But beat them they did in the first 2 games. Unfortunately for them, but great for me, the Dodgers clawed back to tie the series and force it to a 7th game where they beat the Twins. The underdog lost but what a fight they put up. '67 brought the Impossible Dream Red Sox against those Cardinals again, and Gibson and company made sure that it was indeed an impossible dream for the Boston nine. Then comes 1968 and all of the unrest and strife that was taking over our world. I remember Opening Day being cancelled for all of MLB out of respect for the funeral of Martin Luther King Jr. Never knowing that would only be the opening salvo on a year with so many devastating losses, when the World Series rolled around and found the Tigers and the miraculous 31 game winner, Denny McLain, along with Mickey Lolich going up against ....yep, that man again, Bob Gibson and his Cardinals, it seemed as if some normalcy would come back to my world with Gibson carrying his team to another World Series victory. A World Series record of 17 strikeouts in game one and complete games in games 1,4, and 7 would seem to have written the script for this one, but Mickey Lolich one-up'ed the Great One and threw 3 complete game victories himself and actually beat Gibson in game 7. Baseball was truly beginning to teach me that life was not so easily figured out and that one simple play could change the outcome of an entire series. Why, if Lou Brock would have slid at home in Game 5 he probably would have been safe . Instead he inexplicably stayed upright for the play at home and Willie Horton threw a laser beam from left field to Bill Freehan, whose only chance to get Brock out was if Brock stayed upright......and he did! Because of that play the Tigers rallied to win that game and draw to within 3-2 instead of losing the Series in 5 games and go on to win the Series in 7. It wasn't to soon after the last out of this World series that the year 1968 began to change my perceptions of what I thought I knew. Rumors began to go around my school that my 8th grade teacher, a nun, and our asst.pastor were for lack of a better word, a couple. Within a year those rumors turned true when we heard that they had both quit their monastic ways and were indeed together .

So as you read this it's fair to think that my memories of baseball consist of memories of October, but that isn't really true. Sure the October highlights have left impressions on me but it's the regular season games of April through September where my mind goes when it thinks of baseball. Mr. Gonce taking the neighborhood kids to Jet Stadium and buying us all Jet Bars, those wonderful orange-coated , ice cream bars on a stick, while watching future major leaguers like Freddie Patek, Richie Hebner,Bob Robinson, Manny Sanguillen and Dave Cash. A game in early August in Montreal with the stadium more empty than full, and Tony Gwynn singles and steps into baseball immortality with his 3000th hit.Opening homestand of 1998 for the Padres. They are losing to the Diamondbacks 3-2 in the bottom of the ninth with 2 outs and the bases loaded. Steve Finley steps into the box and delivers a game winning grand slam to light the fuse for the Pads run to the World Series that year.

Listening to the Cincinnati Reds nightly on my radio in the '70's as they applied for the title of greatest teams ever. Bench, Perez, Rose, Griffey, Foster,Morgan,Geronimo,Concepcion, I can still remember those lineups by heart. Maybe they were as good as any team to play the game.

Then there are my personal memories of certain particular games.

I was there the day Tony Gwynn played his last game. My wife sitting next to me and my one year old daughter in my arms as we all stood for an hour after the game and applauded a man who played a childs game, like a child. Granted, a highly intelligent child with his ability to break down his swing, pitchers tendencies and defenses, but still a child. You could see the love of the game in his eyes whenever he spoke of the game. This was also the day Rickey Henderson collected his 3000th career hit.

Three days before that we sat in Jack Murphy stadium and watched as my daughter flew. Yes, flew.

Henderson hit a home run to break Ty Cobb's career record for runs scored. Of course Rickey did it with flair, as he slid into home.....on a home run! Unfortunately I never saw that. As Rickey hit the ball towards left field the crowd rose as one instantly because this was a no doubter and we all knew the historic moment that was about to take place. Our daughter was sitting in one of those multi positional backpack carriers with legs. She was positioned between our seats in our row. As we rose as one,apparently we ejected her and the carrier into the air and down 2 rows where she landed on the ground, right side up. As those in front of us witnessed this solo flight, we were completely unaware of her maiden voyage until a couple in front of us got our attention and pointed out her perfect 4 point landing........2 rows down from us.Going into instant panic mode, as well as embarrassed parent mode, we retrieved our daughter as Rickey slid into home and baseball immortality. But we missed it. What a great memory!

All of these memories, and so many more,are the foundation of all that I love about the game today.Despite what so many say, it is still a game at it's absolute core.Hanging on to that realization has perhaps helped me hang on to my love affair with the game longer than many others who have left the game, and the memories, behind.

So I reach a point where even I wonder why I am writing all of this. Certainly some of you have absolutely no interest in baseball, and especially not my memories of the game. Yet some of you have been kind enough to read this far.So I'll try to sum this up.

Baseball has played out for well over 150 years now. 150+ springs have come and gone and most of the people who have played the game have been forgotten. Only a true handful of these players are really remembered. But it is in those that have passed through the memories of the game that I feel a certain connection.Those who have slipped through the cracks are as important as any Hall of Famer who ever played, simply because they played. They were the teammates of the greats. Without them others would never have been as good as they were. Without them so much of the game is lost.

Baseball helps me not to dwell on what I have lost, but to celebrate what I have found.