Published: October 09, 2008 09:24 pm         

Baseball: An American tradition keeping dreams alive

Point Blank

Some things in America don’t change.

Back in the long-ago summers of my childhood, baseball was my obsession, as it was for most boys before the age of video games and text-messaging.

I all but lived for baseball then; my summers were spent worshipping at the game’s shrine — from collecting baseball cards and agonizing over the Yankees, the Dodgers, the Red Sox or the Reds to dreaming of one day being a major leaguer and playing in the World Series.

The game was more than a religion; it was the music that defined my childhood.

It’s what I did at noon hour at school; it’s what I did on Saturdays, both before and after the Game of the Week aired on TV.

It enveloped my every waking moment.

I remember an elder in my clan who once grumbled at the supper table: “I’d just like to sit down to eat dinner once without somebody talking about baseball.”

But the truth is, everyone talked about baseball — even our teachers and our principals.

We could hardly wait for the school intercom to blare at 1:15 p.m. in early October: “Hello sports fans. This is Curt Gowdy bringing you the World Series.”

Why, some of us even defied the once seemingly sacrosanct tradition of never skipping school: We went home at lunch to watch the games with our parents and grandparents.

And if you were lucky enough to have a TV set in your home, you probably entertained half the neighborhood. Folks gathered around the TV set, eyes glued to the black-and-white screen, with the volume up almost as loud as it would go.

Hardly anyone moved until the final out was recorded and the celestial athletes vacated their sanctified positions — behind the plate, at short-stop, in centerfield.

It didn’t take long to realize that, in its own timeless tradition, baseball provided an order in the universe, a clearly defined discipline that seemed absent in most earthly pursuits.

There was a reaction for every action, a play for every possible possibility that could happen during the scope of single contest.

The game was predictable enough between the foul lines, yet never exactly like any other spectacle played on the diamond before. There were subtleties and nuances that precluded any dedicated fan from ever becoming jaded or lack-luster about the squeeze-play, the shut-out, the home run, or the stolen base.

The uniforms may have seemed baggy and eccentric to those who were unqualified to savor the sport’s uniqueness, but to play in one would have been sheer reverie, a rapture that eluded all but the most praiseworthy and pure-of-heart.

All this came rushing back to me the other night as I watched the Red Sox and the Angels battle in the fall playoffs.

I am lucky to have been a part of the American amusement, even if only as a loyal spectator.

And I recall spending countless nights and afternoons with my nephews at local Little League parks, watching the little kids with their big league mannerisms, digging in at the plate just like a Mantle or Maris did in my day, or wagging the bat at the pitcher like an Aaron or a Clemente.

It’s all part of the American cultural landscape:

- The little kids who are pint-sized versions of major leaguers, complete with the scaled-down field.

- The parents who stand behind the chain-link fence, telling their kids to choke up or take a strike, or not be afraid to swing the bat.

- The look in the eyes of the youngsters as they dig in at the batter’s box, their faces full of 11-year-old urgency.

- The sense that baseball will always be the national pastime — as long as there are role models to help the different generations learn the game.

It’s like nothing has changed since those sunny days of the late 1950s. Ike is in the White House. The American flag flies on the front lawn of houses that all have sturdy front porches.

Mom’s apple pie cools in the window.

You don’t have to lock your doors at night. The world is safe for democracy.

It all speaks of a simpler America, back before drugs became almost every parent’s nightmare.

It was a time when the most important thing seemed to be whether you could get around on the fastball — a time when having to “say no” simply meant you couldn’t stay out with friends later than 10 p.m.

As long as kids keep their dreams alive, America will never change.

-----

Top o’ the morning!

— Blankenship is a columnist for The Register-Herald.

E-mail: jabbb@suddenlink.net.