Baseball
The 2005 major league baseball season began Sunday evening when the Boston Red Sox played the New York Yankees. I am going to ignore some of the things about baseball that I hate, like steroids and egos. Instead, I want to tell you what baseball meant to me as a child and how it was the stuff of magic moments and heroes.
I was a baseball fanatic. Living in Kansas City, I grew up with the Kansas City Athletics who now reside in Oakland, California. In those days, players stayed on the same team and fans got to know them. Loyalty, honor, and valor were a part of baseball in those days - at least it seemed that way to me.
I had a Kansas City Athletics hat. The hat and I were never too far apart. In those days, team sportswear was not available. My mother took an old t-shirt and made a replica of the A's uniform for me, complete with my favorite player's number, "19." She did it with her trusty Artex paints. When I wore that hat and that shirt, I had everything I needed to feel like a big league ball player.
We had a bunch of kids nearby who liked to play baseball. We played in the Killingsworth's yard most of the time. The Killingsworths were all good athletes. Dave was the oldest and three years older than me. Mark was the middle son and he was a year younger than me. Robbie was the youngest and he was about three years behind me. Doug was two years behind me and my across the street neighbor. My best friend was Frank, and he was a year ahead of me. We all got together almost everyday after school and frequently on weekends.
The good thing about the Killingsworth's yard is it had few obstructions. Also, the houses on each side of them did not have fences, so our field could spill over into the other yards. Another good thing about their yard was the zoysa grass. This grass was like a thick carpet and you could slide on it really well.
In the spring, we anxiously waited for a day warm enough to play. The first chance we got, we would be outside playing catch or hitting fly balls. From that time, to the first game was usually a couple of weeks. The ground was always wet and muddy so we had to confine our activities to prevent the ball from getting water logged. Those first games of catch, the sounds and smells in the spring were part of our cycle of life. It was like the swallows going to Capistrano or something. The smell of the leather glove and the ball brought comfort and constancy. I feel the same way today when I hold a glove to my face and smell the leather.
Even though I had a vision problem, the kids compensated for me. They all knew it was not fair to throw the ball by me just because they could. I usually got a ball I could hit. I also pitched most of the time. In the outfield, I could not tell when the ball was coming to me. The infield was a problem, because I would have to handle a hard throw, but pitching gave me the chance to handle the ball without having to field that much. I never got to play organized ball, but my neighborhood games filled the bill.
Sometimes Frank and I would play in my backyard. We constructed game scenarios and acted them out. I often pitched to him and we would do the play-by-play as we went along. Imagine two kids in a backyard and one of them is talking like a baseball announcer. Here is a typical play-by-play:
Strain walks to the mound in relief of the starter. Here's the situation. The bases are loaded and there is nobody out. Kansas City is clinging to a one run lead in this seventh game of the World Series. The Dodgers have the heart of their order coming to the plate in the top of the 9th. If Strain can close them down, the A's will win their first World Series.Frank and I would act it out complete with trips to the mound to settle me down or to remind me of a hitter's strength or weakness.
It always came down to a last strike - something like this:
Strain looks in for the sign . . . bases are loaded . . two out and a 3 - 2 count on Howard. Strain checks the runners . . . he kicks and delivers. CALL STRIKE THREE ON THE OUTSIDE CORNER - WHAT A PITCH - HOLY COW - THIS PLACE IS GOING CRAZY - THE KANSAS CITY A'S HAVE JUST WON THEIR FIRST WORLD SERIES AND JOHN STRAIN GETS THE BIGGEST SAVE OF HIS LIFE!!!
So many things about baseball are nostalgic. I love to hear the warmth of an announcer painting pictures with words. Listening to them every day creates a familiarity, one feels a personal connection. I spent many evenings in the backyard listening to Monte Moore and Red Rush. I never knew when the calm voice of Monte would shift into high gear as he described some action. The crowd erupting at the same time had the power to send chills up and down my spine.
Years later, I stood on a little league field as a coach for my son's team. The sounds and smells were the same and I was in familiar territory. I wrote a piece about it and named it "The Stage of Dirt and Grass."
The Stage of Dirt and Grass
Engaged in a dance, a rite of passage, choreographed by those who have gone on before - still variations are written and composed as unique as the lives of the dancers who take to this stage of dirt and grass.Yesterday he was 12 years old pitching his first game. His stomach was filled with butterflies from the fears of possible failure, the hope of success and the realization of responsibility that others were depending on him.
Today he is a father watching his son. Feeling nostalgia and reliving some of the sweet innocent times of his life. A welcome break from the pressure of his reality. He feels butterflies too. This time from the awe that is the realization of life's cycles. Seeing where he has been, knowing where he is and knowing his time is growing short. The feeling that it has all happened so fast, yet able to enjoy the moment and drink in the spring air and sunshine. To put a glove to his face and be reminded of the smells of childhood. The smell of the leather and the grass transporting him back in time one sense at a time.
Tomorrow, he is a grandfather, now sitting in the stands. Observing, even more philosophical, at peace. The familiarity of the game and the sights and sounds are comforting. No matter what has changed in the world during his long life, this game has not. It is still the place boys begin to learn what it is to be a man. To work as a group, to win and lose with dignity, to encourage, to be humbled, to accept a challenge, to conquer a fear or work through a pain.
The lessons of baseball are endless, so too is the never ending stream of sons, fathers and grandfathers sharing in at least one common thread that runs through their lives. The stage of dirt and grass.
Play Ball!
Until the next time
John Strain
Wednesday, April 6, 2005 at 12:01AM 
I was surfing the net and found some pretty neat vintage video of the Boston Marathon. Check them out here: 