ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Monday, April 22, 1996 TAG: 9604230026
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A-6 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: CRAIG HIXON
DAVID Leibowitz (March 14 commentary, ``It's spring; the bigs are back'') has no clue what it means to be a baseball fan.
Baseball isn't about ``mistreated'' millionaire prima donnas, greedy, incompetent owners or Nike and network television. It isn't defined by Barry Bonds, Albert Belle, Deion Sanders, George Steinbrenner, Marge Schott or Bud Selig. These hemorrhoids on the gluttonous maximus of our national pastime are important only to those who don't understand what baseball means to America.
To me, baseball is a passion for the game passed on by my father and older brother. It's the memory of playing catch with family members, recollected walks to Baker's Supermarket to buy 10-cent packs of baseball cards and trading sessions with my best friend. Opening that first pack of the spring was like confirming that the new season was eminent. The thrill of pulling a Henry Aaron, a Willie Mays, a Brooks Robinson or a Sal Bando. It's the playing-card baseball game another friend taught me before we knew of Rotisserie or Fantasy Baseball. (He also constructed the whiffle-ball equivalent of Fenway Park behind Bane's Apartments.)
It's those summer nights spent surfing the AM dial for games from WWWE in Cleveland, WBZ in Boston or other faraway sources. It's the baseball that Chicago White Sox outfielder Rick Reichardt tossed to me at Memorial Stadium in Baltimore. Ah, those baseball trips my parents treated me to in Baltimore, Atlanta and Philadelphia, as well as to the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y. It's the memory of going to the Salem Pirates games with my dad. I'll never forget meeting Hall of Fame pitcher Bob Feller at Municipal Stadium.
Baseball is recalling long summer days playing the game on the playground beside Weller Baker Elementary School in Cambria. It's the voices of Curt Gowdy, Joe Garagiola and Tony Kubek on the NBC game of the week. It's the various ABC Monday Night Baseball announcers, especially guest appearances by Satchel Paige and Dizzy Dean. It's the gravelly voice of Harry Caray and the Southern drawl of Red Barber. It's the night Aaron hit his 715th home run, and the feeling that somehow, by watching, I was part of the historic moment. It's the thrill of my team, the Oakland A's, winning three consecutive World Series. It's my mom encouraging me to participate in the Montgomery Regional Library's summer reading program, which led me to read biographies about legends like Babe Ruth, Stan Musial, Yogi Berra and Jackie Robinson. It's the mounds of RC Cola cans I amassed when they featured baseball players' pictures on their packaging.
Baseball is the selfless humanitarianism that cost the life of the great Roberto Clemente. It was seeing Johnny Bench attempting to sing on ``Hee-Haw.'' It's the 1975 Atlanta Braves program I had with the autographs of Pete Rose, Jack Billingham and Bob Beall. It's the tear in my eye when I heard about Yankee catcher Thurman Munson's death (although I'm a life-long Yankee-hater). Those moist eyes return every year when I watch Gary Cooper deliver Lou Gehrig's farewell speech in ``Pride of the Yankees;'' when Kevin Costner plays catch with his father's ghost in ``Field of Dreams;'' and when Robert DeNiro and Michael Moriarty part company at the end of ``Bang the Drum Slowly,'' knowing that DeNiro is dying.
It's the yearly baseball trips with Bill, which usually mean Baltimore. But we did see one of Nolan Ryan's last starts at Cleveland in 1993, and made the pilgrimage to Boston with another childhood friend, Tim. Entering Fenway Park and facing the green monster was a religious experience. Tiger Stadium and Wrigley Field are next.
Baseball is the intensity of Kirk Gibson, the everyman-body of Kirby Puckett, the giddiness of Sparky Anderson describing the next phenom, the work ethic of Tony Gwynn, the grace of Ken Griffey Jr., the power of Randy Johnson, the consistency of Eddie Murray, the surgeon-like precision of Greg Maddux, and John Kruk being, well, John Kruk. Man, I'm going to miss him.
If you still don't know what baseball is, take a trip to Oriole Park in Baltimore. In addition to the most beautiful ballpark in the majors and the best fans, you'll see a 6-foot, 4-inch living, breathing monument to the institution of baseball. Watch the pre-game fun and games, the game-time intensity, and the post-game attention to the fans. Watch Cal Ripken Jr. go about his business, and you'll get an idea of what baseball is meant to be.
Baseball is the dream of ``the show'' in every movement of a member of the Salem Avalanche or the Lynchburg Hillcats. It's the intensity of a Hokie or Highlander as he enjoys the daily thrill of the game before becoming a teacher, businessman, architect or engineer. Baseball can be seen in the faces of high-school players who have grown up on the magic of the game. It's a tee-ball game with 6-year-olds who often react quicker to grasshoppers and butterflies than to one-hoppers and pop flies. Baseball is a bunch of neighborhood kids playing in an empty field or large yard and pretending to be Frank Thomas, Fred McGriff or Ripken. This is the institution of baseball that we need to pass on to the next generation.
Occasionally, I get my fur in a bunch over the negative aspects of baseball in the '90s, but I made a vow to myself during the last strike. Baseball has meant too much to me to allow an avalanche of arbitration and wanton arrogance to ruin my love of the national pastime. Fair-weather fans like Leibowitz can allow the unsavory characters in modern baseball to steal the game from them. As for me, like the Whos down in Whoville, baseball is a feeling deep inside my being that no Grinch can steal.
Craig Hixon of Christiansburg is a social-studies teacher at Shawsville High School.
LENGTH: Medium: 95 linesby CNB