Baseball, Part 7

A few loose ends ... things I forgot in earlier posts ... and final thoughts.

I had never seen a major league game until the late summer of 1956 (we’d just moved from Oklahoma to northeast Ohio). Dad took my younger brother and me to see the Tribe play, and I was stunned by the field at old Cleveland Stadium. The green grass dazzled me (grass was khaki-colored in the late summer and fall in Oklahoma)—and all the people.

I couldn’t believe how hard Rocky Colavito could throw the ball from right field; I couldn’t believe how fast the players could run, how far they could hit the ball.

Another game, later on, the Tribe was playing the Yankees (complete with Mickey Mantle; Yogi Berra, my hero; Whitey Ford; Phil Rizzuto; et al.). As I mentioned in an earlier post, I was a Yankees fan at the time (all those TV Games of the Week, all those World Series wins). We were sitting in the upper deck, and I was cheering for the Yanks, and a (drunken) guy near us inquired, incredulously, “Are you a Yankees fan?” Proudly, I replied. “Yes,” “Then I hate your guts!” he snarled and whirled around. I was 12 years old.

A number of years later, thinking myself a future star of the Indians (I’d jettisoned the Yanks by then), a foul fly landed right in my hands. I dropped it. I should have known then ...

For many years I attended several games a year (often on opening day), listened or watched just about every other game. I saw the Tribe play in Boston and Oakland. We have some dear friends here in Hudson who had season tickets, and they would invite us to games from time to time. 

In the 90s when they were getting into the playoffs (Jim Thome, Albert Belle, Kenny Lofton, et al.), we, (yes,, Joyce, too) became fanatics. Joyce would get so nervous at times that she would leave the room where the game was on.

Earlier—and later—in my life I read baseball books—ones for young adults (The Kid Comes Back, et al.), ones for adults: e.g, Bernard Malamud’s The Natural, W. P. Kinsella’s Shoeless Joe and others of his baseball books, Philip Roth’s The Great American Novel.

But when I got my cancer diagnosis in late 2004, my interest in sports began to wane. I had once been a major fan of all Cleveland’s teams—the Tribe, Browns, Cavs. But, one by one, I lost interest in them all. Can’t explain it, really. I just did.

I still played some with our son and grandsons.

And then that, too, ended. Here’s how.

I’ve developed some symptoms that some excellent doctors have still not been able to figure out—or treat. Dizziness. I now fall—and cannot stop myself—and have made several trips to the ER as a result.

But one Memorial Day a couple of years ago we were visiting our son and his family. I, on impulse, went out to their back yard to play a little Wiffle Ball with our older grandson. We took turns hitting and pitching.

My first time batting, I nailed his first pitch, earning surprised sounds of admiration from him.

The second time I swung, I missed the ball—but did not miss the ground. There was no stopping myself: I swung; I missed; I hit the ground. This was no slow-motion earth-collision. I swung, missed, and hit the ground—hard. I was nearly unconscious as a result.

Our daughter-in-law’s a nurse, and she hurried outside to check me out. I was all right. Embarrassed but all right.

And that, my friends, was the last time I played the game even in a simple form.

And now? I do check the Tribe scores occasionally, but I’ve not watched or listened to or attended a game in years. I couldn’t name more than a player or two.

And so it ends ...