Happy Opening Day...My 58th Baseball Season!

Ok, so I'm a baseball fanatic. Maybe, IMHO it's because it's such a pure sport. Guy throws round object at guy holding cylindrical object trying to crush round object. It is truly THE most difficult sport to play....well. Although ESPN ranks boxing as the sport with the highest degree of difficulty, baseball defies the laws of physics in so many ways. Hey, Pete Rose summed it up best, "It's a round ball and a round bat, and you've got to hit it square!" OK. So he's not a Rhodes Scholar but he's got a point. And if I were a betting man, I'd lay odds that most ball players would agree with Pete. Pete may even take some of that action.

I grew up loving baseball because my dad and his dad and my grandmother made sure that I would love this American game. Every chance there was I'd be with the aforementioned family unit listening to an old bakelite Silvertone in the garage while doing chores (younger readers may be asking "what the hell are chores?") listening to the Dodgers try to take a game away from the San Francisco Giants. So give me a break, I grew up in LA and the Angels were still a minor league club. The Blue Wrecking Crew was my team until I moved to San Diego in 1975.
I have fond memories of attending Dodger games at the LA Coliseum. Oh yeah, a 250 foot left field shot over an 80 foot fence. Wally Moon shots we're something special. Then we catch a game at LA's Wrigley Field where the Angels played. The ballpark was an exact replica of Chicago's basilica of baseball. I even have a faint recollection of attending a couple of Hollywood Stars games (a Pacific Coast League team) at Gilmore Field where the present CBS Television City now stands (Beverly & Fairfax).

Baseball was everywhere in my life. It was my life. It's what I longed for during the Fall/Winter months. "Dad, when are little league tryouts?" His answer always the same, "still four months and 13 days away." My optimism shone a bit brighter. Yesterday tryouts were four months and 14 days away.

My auspicious little league career started off "like a balsa wood bat against Nolan Ryan." Drafted by the Fireballs, I was the biggest kid on the team. Expectations were always heightened by being the "big" i.e. chubby, kid on the team. He must be a long-ball bopper. Au contraire...I struck out 44 straight times that season. Batted a giant goose egg and really only got in the games because third base coach Big George was my dad. He never really got on me for being so crappy. He worked with me on my stance, my approach to hitting, keeping my eye on the ball...he was my personal Tony Gwynn. The only difference Tony gets results from his understudies. Then it happened. We figured out why my hitting style resembled that of an immigrant grandma beating the dust out of a carpet on a clothesline. It wasn't hitting mechanics. I was visually challenged. I had to grow into my new nickname.....Four Eyes. So here I was, the second year in the league, this time drafted by the Yanks but sporting a reputation that screamed "big boy, no game!" Now remember, the previous year, 44 at bats, 44 strikeouts, 44 long walks back to the dugout head hung low, bat dragging behind me, an invisible tear in my eyes. This year, it's a new me. Sporting some stylish Clark Kent eye wear but still unproven at the dish. First at bat, whiff, whiff, whiff...strike three. Second at bat, whiff, whaff, wuff...strike three. What the hell is going on here. My optometrist said I could see now. Why wasn't I able to hit that little round ball with my little round bat. My dad sensed my dejection but was always certain I had a skill set. Maybe it wasn't a baseball skillset.....but that day, he found the answer to my whiffing woes. My last at bat that day he pulled me aside as I was stepping into the batter's box. I wish I could tell you it was the last inning, bases were loaded and it was up to me to point to center field and knock one outta' 'da park. But I can't recall the circumstances. All I know that my dad's words changed my life that day. His words have carried me through life. Poignant. Succinct. Meaningful. Wise. It wasn't a diatribe. It wasn't a litany. It was eight little words that I carry with me yet today. Big George bent down, looked me straight in those tortoise shell specs and said, "Try it with your eyes open this time." I looked at him incredulously as if to say, "What are you nuts? Of course my eyes have been open." He put his finger to my mouth to shush me and he just nodded his head. I nodded back and stepped into the batter's box. Whiff....whiff....WHACK! Yeah, it was a Barry Bonds moment sans HGH. I watched a high drive to left field sail to that three foot fence and bounce off the top and onto the field. I hit that bastard! As hard as I could! My dad was yelling at me to "run." Oh yeah, I forgot. So like any chubby kid who runs like he has a Steinway strapped to his back, I legged out my first little league triple complete with a slide into third base. My dad smiled. I about peed my pants. And we went for ice cream after the game. By the way, that season we won the championship. I went 35 for 52...which is a sweet .712 batting average. And my love affair for the game of baseball grew even stronger.

Which brings me to why I wrote today's blog. The Padres invited us to PetCo Park to take some batting practice. Here's the video (along with co-workers Sam Bass and Kevin Dean.) Unfortunately for me I don't have that .712 form any longer. Hell, I barely got wood on the ball. But it didn't matter one bit. Just for that instance I was back at Barnes Park, digging in and trying to hit a round ball with a round bat WITH my eyes open.
Play Ball.