Having a Ball at the Ballpark

With the start of a new baseball season, my mind is flooded with joyful hopes and sweet memories.

Naturally, each major league team begins its schedule with an 0-0 record, thus all are tied for first place. For most teams, this will be their only time in this lofty position. There has never been, and never will be, a perfect 162-victory season in baseball, yet losses are tolerated because each loss is followed by the belief, "You can't win them all" or "We'll get them tomorrow." Of course, most teams experience slumps in which one loss leads to another and another. As a matter of fact, it is because of baseball, I learned the word "slump," which is applicable to relationships, careers, and much more.

But before the slump, there is simply hope. This is the year magic will occur. The star player will stay healthy and have his best year ever. The unknown rookie will perform beyond anyone's wildest expectations. The team's extended winning streaks will bring new excitement to the ballpark. It all seems possible, especially in early April. Even if one's favorite team has trouble winning at the start of the season, the loyal fan can believe the batters will heat up once the weather heats up. Hope manifests itself in so many ways.

Having been a baseball fan for seventy years, I have countless sweet memories. I grew up in Brooklyn in the 1950s and recall when the Yankees, Dodgers, and Giants fought for the city's attention and love. My family were Yankee fans as evidenced by naming our dog "Yogi" for Yogi Berra, not Yogi the Bear. As a child, it seemed natural for the Yankees to play in almost every World Series. I loved them for it, and many years later, I learned people hated them for it. Those Yankee line-ups offered me many heroes to worship, such as Mantle, Maris, Berra, Howard and Skowron. On the streets of NYC, my friends and I mirrored their battling stances and swings as we fantasized our own future stardom in the pin-striped uniforms.

Growing up often leads to letting go of childish fantasies and finding new realities. When reading Jim Bouton's Ball Four, I was able to peek behind the curtain to see my heroes in a different way, including the drunken brawls, the sexual exploits, and the use of "greenies" to "get up" for a game. Another new reality was the awareness I lacked the skills to be a star baseball player, so I shifted my focus to simply being a fan. I loved attending games in various ballparks, especially after leaving NYC. In my college years in Pittsburgh, I saw old Forbes Field and the new Three Rivers Stadium, both parks are long gone. When I moved to Chicago, I loved going to Wrigley Field and old Comiskey Park. On a business trip to the Twin Cities, I saw a game at Target Field and sampled Killebrew root beer. Plenty of minor league parks can be added to the list. While many people find baseball too slow and boring, the atmosphere of a baseball crowd is something to cherish. Part sporting event, part picnic, and part concert these days.

Nearly twenty years ago, I began inviting my fellow addictions counselors to attend annual White Sox games with me. At first, there were just four of us, but we often expanded to twelve and included the Chicago Dogs, a minor league team in Rosemont, IL. Being old school fans, we attend day games, eat a lot of ballpark food, and always chat with nearby fans. Rarely do we talk business. Mostly we swap memories of our favorite players and teams, which suggests to me that each of us brings an Inner Child with him. I have many sweet memories with these guys.

Perhaps my sweetest memory of attending a game occurred in 2024 at American Family Field in Milwaukee, I had box seats with my wife along the first base line. When the Brewers trotted back to the dugout after getting the third out in the top of each inning, one of the players would toss the ball over the high net in place to protect fans from being injured by line drives into the crowd. Every time, the tossed ball would land far away from our seats. As the top of the seventh inning ended, I was talking with my wife yet noticed a ball clearing the net and heading our way. I stood and leapt upward (please know my vertical leap isn't what it used to be). The ball hit my outstretched left hand and fell softly into my right hand. No error on this play. As soon as I realized what happened, an inner voice, which sounded like the late, great Bob Uecker said, "Give it to a kid!" And there were a few of them with hungry eyes looking my way. I flipped the ball to one and saw him smile from ear to ear. Keep in mind this was the start of the seventh-inning stretch, so all the fans were on their feet and started singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame, followed by Beer Barrell Polka (because that's what we do in Milwaukee). The excitement of catching a ball and the joy of thousands singing together definitely was a natural high for me. And it got even better when the boy walked up to thank me and shake my hand.

My story closes with both a sweet memory and a joyful hope. I'll always remember the ball in my hand and the boy's handshake. Most of all, I have a joyful hope that the next generation may be grateful for what we give them, even though it looks like a mess these days.

Maybe we're just in a slump.