Rethinking My Love of Baseball


I can date my love of baseball to spring training 1968. That’s 46 seasons ago. As a Red Sox fan, the recent years have been good to me. I don’t want to talk about 1972, 1975, 1978, mark at fenway 20031986, 1990, or 2003, thank you.

I feel great sentimentality towards the game. Like most kids, my Dad took me to my first major league game. Green was never greener and white was never whiter than that day at Fenway. The larger-than-life men were cast out on the field in front of me in life size but they never looked more impressive.

I cherish how my son’s favorite player played with my favorite player who played with my father’s favorite player.

I love the confluence of smokey sausage, salty peanuts and cold beer at the ballpark. I long to hear the crack of the bat, the muffled snap of rock-hard, cowhide hitting soft leather with immeasurable force in the heat of the summer.

I actually like how the seats Fenway are small and close – your elbow is in your neighbor’s lap and vice versa; it’s uncomfortable, until you become friends. By the end of the game, you’ve become a little Fenway family with the folks around your way-too-small seat. And, a little hint, you can share a bag of peanuts with your new friend by wedging it between your leg and his leg.

Each year starts with hope, usually ends in disappointment, but once in a while, it ends in unfettered joy and jubilation.

For all these reasons and more, I love the game of Major League Baseball, but today I think I’ve realized something important – and it may be the most important reason I love baseball.

Once the team comes north and the games start to count, baseball means winter is finally, at long last, freakin’ over!

Play Ball!

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