15 of 29

Write now Article Tools

Page 3 of 5

to be happening for hours on end other than one guy on a little hill dervishly twisting and gyrating his body before throwing the ball to another guy squatting in the dirt 50 feet away. Most of the time, everyone else on the field look as if they're just standing around watching, no more relevant to the outcome than the spectators in the stands. The only difference between a real athlete and a pretender in the stands seems to be that the players get paid a lot of money to watch, and fans paid out a lot of money to do the same thing.

For the casual fan who just forked over $100 or more to take himself, the wife and kids to the game, paid for gas and parking and bought them each a hot dog and soft drink plus maybe a souvenir to take home, this is understandable. It's a lot of money to give Ted Rogers for an apparently sleepy event with no cheerleaders, no marching band, no half-time entertainment. No half time. My first formal high school dance in did not cost $100. For considerably less than half that amount I rented a tux, bought flowers for my date, filled Dad's car with gas, popped for two tickets, danced with a sleek looking girl wearing a sexy dress, talked and laughed with friends, paid for dinner in a restaurant and experienced my first French kiss. Fifty dollars more than covered eight hours of entertainment and excitement, and indirectly provided countless reels of fantasy movies I was reduced to screening in my mind since it would be nearly two years before I would get another kiss where tongues played an active role in the merriment.

I barely remember my date for that dance. I do remember the first major league ballplayer I ever met, eight or nine years before. It was Eddie Mathews, who played third base for the then-Milwaukee Braves. I still have the now-fading, black-and-white photo of us together. Who knows whatever happened to the picture taken that Friday night long ago in the high school gym?

By the time I reached grade school, my love of baseball was well-entrenched. An ideal birthday gift was a new glove or bat, even though my birthday is in November. I'd spend the winter oiling, softening and shaping the mitt, and standing in the basement taking practice swings at imaginary pitches while imitating the batting stance of whichever player had been my hero the previous season.

It was about this time that Papa, my maternal grandfather, made a business decision that possibly benefited his store but definitely cemented forever my attachment to baseball.

• << previous page
• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4
• 5
• next page >>

Add your voice

Know something about Essays: Spring?
We want to hear your view. Write now!