THE BOYS OF SUMMER ARE BACK

                                    

Sometime in the next few weeks, an umpire will stroll to home plate, reach in his back pocket, dust off home plate and yell “Play Ball.” Yes, the ‘Boys of summer’ are back. Also sometime this summer, I will point the nose of my car east and head to Cooperstown. It has been on my bucket list way to long. I probably will want to be alone as a wander through those hallowed halls touching the plaques of those who have immortalized the game. Remembering special moments, when many of them were suited up and playing America’s past time. I am sure it will be emotional for me. There is something special about baseball and its not just it’s storied history I talk about. No, it’s the fact that its one of the few sports that your physical size doesn’t hold you back. It’s a sport for everyone that truly wants to play.

While in Cooperstown I want to stand in front of Harman’s plaque and remember once more this easy going slugger, who hit balls that had upper deck labeled on them the moment the ball and bat collided. How he always laid his bat down gently and jogged around the bases, almost as if the roar of the crowd embarrassed him. I want to stand in front of Kirby’s plaque and hear Jack Buck say, “And well see you tomorrow night,” as Kirby celebrated with the crowd during the 6^th game of the World Series with Atlanta. I want to remember the day Rod Carew toyed with the 400 mark and I was there. Then there are all of the other immortals. Babe, Ted, Stan, Joe, Willy, some of the heroes I grew up. Pitchers like Bob Feller and Herb Score with blazing fastballs and they could get them over the plate. Pitchers like Sandy Koufax that had hitters shaking their heads as they walked back to the dugout after watching a curve ball that came from somewhere outside of third base. Managers like Casey Stengel, John McGraw and Leo Durocher who studied the game, simply to outwit the other managers.

It was a time when ball clubs had farm teams, to cultivate their own athlete’s talent and players came up and played their entire careers for one club, one group of fans. It was a time when the ‘Knot Hole Gang’ got you into the old met for a few dollars and hot dogs cost a buck. You could wear your tee shirt with pride for twenty years, because that player wasn’t going anywhere. Then big money got in the way and it all changed. Unions and agents and owners in conflict all of the time and in the end, the fans were the big losers.

Grantland Rice, the great sports writer wrote and I quote. “For when the great scorer comes to call against your name, He’ll ask not if you won or lost but how you played the game.” I guess that’s the part I choose to remember and not what’s happened to the game. I’ll still be there in the stands, win or lose and cheer for my team and then go home and wistfully and quietly remember how it used to be. I leave you with this.“Oh somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright. The band is playing somewhere and somewhere hearts are light. And somewhere men are laughing and somewhere children shout. But there is no joy in Mudville---mighty Casey has stuck out