Baseball Is Still America's Game

I like football. The Super Bowl is happening tomorrow and America is pretty excited. Even my son wants to have a party. I love to watch it but nothing makes me happier or more nostalgic than an old-fashioned baseball game.

I was scrolling through Facebook and read the post on how the supermarkets are packed with shoppers stocking up on chicken wings, premade cheese and cracker trays, mini-wrapped hot dogs and ingredients for the best tasting chili that should have won at the last cook-off challenge.

Then one post stopped me.

A picture of a high school friend with his girlfriend and one of their friends smiling for the camera at Tropicana Field during a game.

Baseball.

I've always had a love for baseball. Growing up in Connecticut, my family followed the NY Mets. My father even took my brother to a game at Shea Stadium. I didn't hear about that until I was older and, let me tell you, I was some jealous.

We moved to Maine when I was 8 and we kept our love for the Mets quiet in the beginning. It's hard to make friends when you ask the first kid you see if they like the Mets.

It wasn't long before we transitioned to the Red Sox. It was just a natural progression to make. Hearing my mom years later tell me the lineup for the night's game as if she was Terry Francona opened my eyes on what big fans my parents really were. I think the most significant moment was the retiring of David Ortiz. I can still quote my mom as her eyes started to water: "Now THAT was a nice man."

What is it about baseball that digs so deep into me, into us all that, if you could, you would be Jimmy Fallon in 'Fever Pitch'?

Maybe it's from hearing my father tell stories of how growing up, dozens of children would flock to the ball fields after school. Teams would be made of 20 kids or more there were so many. Parents would know where their children were every second of the day because if you would ask them "Where's Raymond?" they would answer nonchalantly "Oh, he's at the field with the kids playing baseball. He'll be home at dark."

And he was...and so were all the other kids.

Maybe it's because we watched it on television as a family when I was young. The excitement that filled our living room from my parents as they followed every pitch was passed down to us.

Maybe it's all the movies about baseball like Angels in the Outfield, The Bad New Bears, The Rookie, Field of Dreams, Pride of the Yankees, The Sandlot, A League of Their Own...there was always a happy ending whether the main character's team won or lost. Who am I kidding? They always won.

Maybe it's because I watch the Little League World Series each year and see the hard work, sacrifice and dedication these kids make to make it that far. It breaks my heart when the other team loses but that's another lesson children learn with playing baseball: you WILL lose at something sometime in your life. Get up, brush yourself off and try again.

Maybe it's from watching my husband's family home movies of him playing ball and hearing them talk to each other like the camera was never rolling. Some words were not sufficient for children's ears and they have banned smoking in the stands since then. It was a family outing where aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews, grammie and grampies all gathered to watch the local kids on a hot summer afternoon.

Maybe it's from watching my stepson grow into a teenager and seeing the changes that come with moving up a level from Little League to the bigger league of junior high school. Faster pitches, faster runners, farther hits, better players.

Maybe it's from watching my own son try so hard and finally get his very first hit and hearing the cheering of the people in the stands from our team AND the away team because another little boy got his first hit.

And so many more will after him.

Baseball has always been the same. Very few things have changed since its inception. Equipment has improved, the science of hitting and pitching has been studied and implemented.

But nothing has changed the way your heart pounds when you hear the crack of the bat and you watch in anticipation on whether it's foul or fair, a single or a home run, if it sneaks past the player's glove or it's snagged and a double play dowses the chances of an advanced runner to tie the game.

Baseball. America's game. My game.

8 days until pitchers report to Florida.

But who's counting?