As you all know already, I’m a ridiculous baseball fanatic, so there’s a big reason why I had a little extra jump in my step and a perma-grin on my face all morning long. The winter already has its obvious drawbacks with the cold, snow and ice, but one of the things that make it so difficult for me is the lack of baseball on my TV.
I know most of you don’t share the same love and a lot of you actually feel the exact opposite about it. If only I had kept count of all the times I’ve heard people tell me that they would rather watch paint dry or grass grow than watch baseball. You’re all entitled to your own opinion and I’m never going to try and change your mind about a game you don’t care about, but I love baseball to death.
To me, there’s something about the sound of the crack of the bat or the background noise of all the people in the stand as they chat away about their everyday lives. There’s the gasp in the crowd when a ball is well-hit and leaves the yard. There’s the smell of the grass and the shine of the sun on a perfect-looking infield as you get set to spend three hours tanning on a beautiful summer day.
I even love the idea of the constant one-on-one battles that happen within the game itself. There’s the obvious batter vs. pitcher, but there’s also runner vs. fielder, catcher vs. base-runner, manager vs. manager, reliever vs. slugger, and so on. It truly is a game of chess played on a big field with an element of contact mixed in.
I remember playing Little League as a kid and remembered the raw emotion that would come out of me when faced with a difficult battle against a tough pitcher. There was one kid that was the monster of the league. He was able to throw 75 miles an hour at 12 years old and it felt like 100 to me. I was scared to death about getting in the face with that. I was also scared about the embarrassment that would come with striking out to him.
I was always a patient hitter and was always willing to take a base via walk rather than swing at junk and hope to hit. The count got to 2-2. The next 7 pitches were high-heaters that were fouled away. I was literally shaking at pitch 12 because he was throwing so hard and I was so tired from swinging so many times. Pitch 12 was a ball. Pitch 13 was a ball. I had walked and won the battle. As weird as it is to say, that remains one of the things I’ll remember the most in playing sports.
As I write this, Game 1 of god-knows-how-many is in the books, but trust me, if I can get a chance, I’ll watch at least a portion of every single one. Baseball is back and it couldn’t come back soon enough!