The Game

Look, I don’t mean to get all melancholy about this: but baseball is MUCH more than just a game for me: it’s a part of my life…and I know that some or many of you only want to listen to  a goofy little podcaster cheerfully rattling off all the good things about running, refraining from the deeply personal diatribes that I often compose here

But, this is my life I’m talking about and I’ve got something to say.

The 2011 baseball season has come to an end.  Gone are the warm summer nights spent sitting in the box seats along the first base line at Fenway, or section K of Hanover Insurance Park at Fitton Field, with an ice cold pint of Sam in one hand and a bag of peanuts in the other.

My beloved Boston Red Sox fell apart in the end this year, and my Worcester Tornadoes lost the last three games of their season to get knocked out of Can-Am Championship play.  It was a dismal way for both of my teams to finish the season, but that: after all, is the painful charm of Baseball.

I wish I could tell you it was only a game.  The rational side of me insists that this is so; but then I find myself drawn back to the ball park…and the sound of the crowd, the crack of the bat, and the beauty, precision and perfect timing of the play. 

I’ll talked to you before about baseball; but I don’t think I’ve ever explained just how important it is to a guy like me, who after all: is merely a fan; a spectator in the stands, in front of the wide screen, the radio…or these days even listening online.

It wasn’t always that way.  In my youth, I played the game: never very well mind you; almost always banished to right field…but I’d sometimes get on base, and I’d sometimes chase down a ball in time to throw it to the infield.  That was a long time ago, and I’m much older now.

This past season, I went to some ball games in Boston and Worcester.  I’d sometimes go with a friend, and often on my own…but every game was special, and every game was epic…because that’s what a baseball game really is. 

It takes skill, athleticism and sometimes a little luck to succeed at this game…and watching it unfold in 9 or extra innings is to behold an interconnected story from pitch to pitch and batter to batter.  It’s the story of love and loss, of victory and despair, of joy and pain.  It’s the story of life.

Over the years, baseball has been an important part of who I am.  It is no coincidence that the very first episode of this podcast featured the story of one of my life’s greatest failures.  In the essay and podcast titled “Dropping the Ball” I retold the story of how I single-handedly lost the Weymouth Farm League championship baseball game. 

It’s some forty years later, and I can still feel the scar of shame and pain from that day.  Of course, I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything: I know now that I’m a better person for all of that…but for me to tell you that baseball is only a game is not quite right, it’s not exactly true, at least not for me.

Twenty-five years ago, In my early twenties professional baseball was something I could experience on my own: working at a commercial radio station who’s studios resided in the very shadow of Fenway Park, I would frequently take my seat in the centerfield bleachers for a mere twenty dollars a night: enough money at the time for a ticket, a hot dog and a few beers.  I’m dating myself here of course; but Fenway wasn’t as popular back then as it is today; and I was a life long Red Sox fan.

I screamed with joy in game six of the 1975 World Series when Carlton Fisk took to the plate in the bottom of the twelfth  after Bernie Carbo’s three run homer tied the game in the 8^th and Dwight Evans caught the ball in the eleventh.  Fisk used the power of the force to push that fly ball just…to….the…left of the left field foul pole and won the game. 

I cursed in disgust on October 2^nd of '78, when, during a one game playoff with the Yankees, Bucky eF-ing Dent, the name all Red Sox fans have forever labeled that great ball player, hit a home run over the Green Monster in the top of the 7^th, which lead to my beloved Red Sox losing the game ending our season far too soon.

I cheered and wept on October 1^st of 83 when my all time favorite ball player Carl Yastrzemski played his last game at Fenway.

And of course I cried tears of joy when my Sox came back from a 3 game to nothing deficit in the ALCS to crush the Yankees and went on to sweep the Cardinals for their first World Series Championship in 86 years.

This game…it’s entertainment yes, it’s fun of course: but for someone like me: an American kid who grew up playing baseball and following my team through the good and bad years: this game has always been a metaphor for life….and it’s always been a part of who I am.

We win some, we lose some.  We struggle, we fight, we persevere even at the bottom of the ninth with two outs and we’re ten runs behind.  It’s not over until it’s over, in baseball and life.

The thing about baseball though, from a fans perspective, is that it’s not really about the game: it’s about watching the game with others; friends, other fans, the crowd and especially someone who is important to you.  What makes this game so much fun to watch is the way it makes you feel, the way we cheer for the players, argue with the umpires and try to rattle the opposing team.

It’s all about rooting for the home team, and if they don’t win…well, it’s a shame…but the best thing about baseball is spending time with the people who have made the greatest impact in your life: your father, grandfather, uncle or son.

I didn’t watch as much baseball this year as a usually do.  This year, I just couldn’t get into the game.

I did go to the ball parks a few times; sometimes with friends; but mostly on my own…and once: only once, with someone …

See what I mean about deeply personal diatribes?

This game…this baseball…it can break your heart.  As a metaphor for life it shows us how hard work and dedication can usually yield success; but not always.  Baseball has rules, and umpires to impose those rules.  Life too has regulations, but quite often lacks official enforcement.

The Russian-American poet and essayist Joseph Broadsky probably said it best when he wrote:

“Life is a game with many rules but no referee. One learns how to play it more by watching it than by consulting any book, including the holy book. Small wonder, then, that so many play dirty, that so few win, that so many lose.”
 

I’m Steve Runner, reminding you to run long…

…and play ball!