One-Sided Love Affair
I love baseball. I have since I was four years old when I first learned to catch a “pop fly” thrown by my Dad above the height of the utility pole out in front of my house. The hardball split my lip, gave me a black eye and bloodied my nose. But I wasn’t going back in the house until I could catch the ball with regularity. My mother was furious.
I love everything about the game. Collecting baseball cards. The smell of a new glove. The raised seams of a new ball. The layout of the field. The green of the grass. The game of cat and mouse between pitcher and batter. The pace. Playing when I was able, watching games when I wasn’t. It did not matter what level of play; the enjoyment did not diminish. I joined the Society for American Baseball Research. I wrote my Senior Thesis about baseball. People who researched 19th Century baseball were the focus of my Ph.D. dissertation. One of the first things I did when I was recuperating from my near fatal motorcycle accident was coach a local 13-year-old team. When my son Cory and I moved to Florida I got involved in coaching and umpiring. As soon as I was physically healed enough, I played softball. I also bought season tickets to watch my beloved Mets anytime I felt like making the 70-mile drive to Shea. I felt like it about 50 times a year for 5 years. Around 20 of those trips were with Cory. He became a Met fan because his Dad loved them so.
One of our most special days of the year was Opening Day. We went 31 years in a row somewhere. While living in New Jersey, it was to see the Mets. When in Florida, it was to see the Marlins, who would occasionally play the Mets. We went to Atlanta one year to see the Braves play the Mets. We went to Tampa to see the Rays when I was angry at Jeffrey Loria who owned the Marlins. No matter the difficulty, we went to Opening Day for 31 years in a row. And then Covid happened. No one went to Opening Day in 2020. Still due to Covid, only people with money or connections went to Opening Day in 2021. Cory and I decided we’d treat missing those 2 years was like players who missed seasons while serving in the armed forces. 2022 was going to be big! After a 2 year sabbatical, we were going to do year 32 right! We decided to take our wives to Citifield in New York to see the Mets!
Cory bought tickets. We booked flights. I opted for a rent-a-car. The game was scheduled for today, March 31. They were going to unveil the statue of Tom Seaver, the Mets pitching icon nicknamed “The Franchise.” Instead, I’m writing this blog. The owners locked out the players in a labor dispute. “Opening Day” was postponed until April 15. There would be no number 32. Too many scheduling conflicts and changes for all of us to go in two weeks.
I am not one of those misanthropes who after every strike or lockout refuse to ever attend another game, until they do. I will go again eventually. But a part of my passion has died. It’s no big deal. No one should care. Major League Baseball certainly doesn’t. The sport that played through the Spanish Flu and 2 World Wars, cancelled a World Series (player’s strike), doesn’t give a shit if I ever go to another game, much less keep a father and son streak alive for what they consider should be a National holiday.
I haven’t broken up with baseball, but I feel like it has cheated on me. I still love baseball and everything about it, but I now know baseball doesn’t love me back. It was a nice ride. I got to wait until I was 64 to lose my child-like adoration. It will never be just a business to me. There are too many subtleties and nuances that have fed my fervor. Besides, I still get to go to college games across town here in Gainesville. That is enough for me . . . unless the Mets make it to the World Series. Then all will be forgiven.