The arrival of baseball season seems a most improbable of occurrences. Snow on the ground, a coat on my back but I can’t help but hear the crack of a bat. It is too soon to ponder the scores and the losses. Regardless of who wins, a friend seems to have come home and a bit earlier than expected.
After awhile, I’ll follow more closely. Trying to untangle the shuffling of rosters, by summer I should recognize the new faces and eventually discover where the old ones have gone. A beer in the sun of a summer day game is still a far distant thing, something to look forward too after the frosts are gone.
The newspaper man will recount the score, tell us of hits and errors and fabulous feats. For some this is important, but not so much to me. It is not the one game played today, but the spirit of all that I have seen before that interests me. It is a difficult thing to explain unless you started watching at age 4.
If you go with your father and then with your daughter it is not the plays you see but a certain recollection of feelings. There is a feeling of satisfaction of having once seen Pete Rose and the passion and the effort. And understanding the previous generation remebering DiMaggio and the streak and Marilyn. I wonder who today’s children will remember and what and why.
Maybe getting older just means you have seen more seasons, not such a bad thing at all.