Every April brings warmer weather, longer walks with my dogs, grilling out, and the start of Major League Baseball's regular season. I think every baseball fan remembers that first trip to a pro game. I was nine when my Dad announced that in late April he had a Saturday off work and he was taking me to my first Indians game. Now I'm a firm believer in rooting for the hometown team, provided you are fortunate enough to be from an area that boasts a pro baseball team. If not, well, the main thing is to pick a team and stick with the team. There was no bandwagon jumping around my house-then or now. Any local fair-weather fans, well, that was a sure sign they were far less devoted souls transplanted from the nether regions of the sports world. (A few regions in particular come to mind, but best to let sleeping dogs and bitter rivalries lie.)
But I digress, back to my story...Now concerning the monumental nature of the occasion, I'd already devoured every baseball-themed book my local library had or could borrow from neighboring systems. Had I a budget for my suitably limited, age-appropriate allowance, the budget's sum would've been devoted entirely to one line item: baseball cards. And I'd already filled several notebooks full of hand drawn scoring ledgers while hanging on legendary Indians announcer Herb Score's every syllable.
Well, the winter of my ninth year must have passed slower than any other. It seemed like April would never arrive. Before bed every night, I'd walk to the calendar hanging on my door and mark off another day. Slowly, painfully, January and February wore on. In March I got my glove out, tightened the laces, oiled it up, and battled the vestiges of winter, playing catch most days after school with my good friend Bryan.
Finally, April arrived in all its glory; slowly the day of the big game drew near. It didn't matter to me that we were traveling to a cavernous ballpark that was nearing the end of its storied history, or that the day was rainy and cold, or that my team hadn't and wouldn't reach .500 for several more years. NOTHING, absolutely nothing could have dampened my enthusiasm. I remember what I wore, where we sat, what we ate, and my first thought upon seeing the field at Cleveland Municipal Stadium. I thought the field was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen in my life.
My Indians lost that game, but no matter. I cheered for them so much I was hoarse by the bottom of the ninth. My Dad bought us both a hot-dog and a coke; we sat there and ate them, ball glove on one hand, hot-dog in the other. Thus began my ritual of consuming one hot-dog annually with stadium mustard, relish, and onions. Ordinarily, I wouldn't touch a hot dog, but there's something about a ballpark that makes them taste out-of-this-world good.
To me, baseball is beautiful, flawed and inequitable aspects and all. It mirrors life in so many ways with its: competition, triumphs, traditions, routines, human errors, defeats, almosts, could-haves, starting overs, incremental adjustments, regrouping, inspiring, rallying, supporting, passing the torch, imparting wisdom, learning, growing, and inspiring. As this baseball season is newly begun, I'd like to say: Go Indians! I hope everyone gets to go to at least one game this year with family or friends. And thanks, Dad, for all you've taught and continue to teach me about the great games of baseball and life. I'm proud to say I throw like a girl; like my Dad's girl!
Finally, April arrived in all its glory; slowly the day of the big game drew near. It didn't matter to me that we were traveling to a cavernous ballpark that was nearing the end of its storied history, or that the day was rainy and cold, or that my team hadn't and wouldn't reach .500 for several more years. NOTHING, absolutely nothing could have dampened my enthusiasm. I remember what I wore, where we sat, what we ate, and my first thought upon seeing the field at Cleveland Municipal Stadium. I thought the field was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen in my life.
My Indians lost that game, but no matter. I cheered for them so much I was hoarse by the bottom of the ninth. My Dad bought us both a hot-dog and a coke; we sat there and ate them, ball glove on one hand, hot-dog in the other. Thus began my ritual of consuming one hot-dog annually with stadium mustard, relish, and onions. Ordinarily, I wouldn't touch a hot dog, but there's something about a ballpark that makes them taste out-of-this-world good.
To me, baseball is beautiful, flawed and inequitable aspects and all. It mirrors life in so many ways with its: competition, triumphs, traditions, routines, human errors, defeats, almosts, could-haves, starting overs, incremental adjustments, regrouping, inspiring, rallying, supporting, passing the torch, imparting wisdom, learning, growing, and inspiring. As this baseball season is newly begun, I'd like to say: Go Indians! I hope everyone gets to go to at least one game this year with family or friends. And thanks, Dad, for all you've taught and continue to teach me about the great games of baseball and life. I'm proud to say I throw like a girl; like my Dad's girl!
Great read! Go Tribe!
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