2012
Well, it’s over. The
scoreboard is dark. The public address
system is silent. The seats are empty.
The bases have been brought in.
The bats and balls have been put away.
The grass will weather the winter and the chalk lines will fade into the
dirt. Sadly, the disappointment is still
sinking in. For weeks, I was pumped, but
in just one fall night my hopes were crushed…at least until next season. Okay,
if you know me, you’ve probably realized I’m talking about the brutal loss My
Rangers took at the hands of the St. Louis Cardinals. I use the word brutal, because it hurt, not
because it was one of those one-sided, lame, boring World Series battles.
A little history:
When I was a kid, I hated baseball or at least, I told myself I
did. I played part of a season. It was in Virginia; the summer league at the
fields near Indian River High School. I
believe I was in the third or fourth grade.
I had no concept of the game and everyone I was playing with had been
playing for at least a couple of years.
I was scared to death to take the field.
I was afraid I’d make a mistake or not know what to do.
My younger brother, he was great at it. He started young and each year his team got
better and better. He could pitch. He could catch. He could play a mean second base. My dad was one of the coaches and he had a
natural talent for it. If he hadn’t
decided to make a career out of the Navy, coaching would have been his calling.
It wasn’t like it is today where they used tees or pitching
machines to learn the game. Those kids
were pitching from the beginning and some of them were just fantastic. They took the game serious. They listened during the practices and
followed all of dad’s drills. I actually
enjoyed hanging out at his practices more than I enjoyed playing with my own
team, so I just stopped playing.
Fast Forward: I’m in
college. I went to several Rangers games
in the old stadium just because the bank I worked for took all of its
employees. The park was practically
empty. I remember one game was against
the White Sox and it went nine innings with a score of one to nothing. The Rangers lost. It just reinforced the idea that baseball was
boring.
Surprisingly, I became a trainer for the college team. I enjoyed the game at that level, but it was
mostly because of the attitude of the guys on the team. It was a small, private college; they played
as much for the fun of the game as anything.
After college, baseball went back to being a non-interest.
Fast Forward Again:
I’m a dad. I’ve got a couple of
kids playing ball. I decide, what better
way for my kids to learn about baseball than to watch the pros. We started watching Rangers games
together. No, the team wasn’t all that
great and they weren’t going to make the playoffs, but they reminded me of the
guys in college who actually seemed to play because they liked it. We quickly picked out our favorite players.
We watched and learned the game together. We talked about what was happening in the
game. We discovered the techniques and
the plays. We learned the meaning of
terms like – double play, fielder’s choice, an RBI, a single, a double, a
triple, and of course the most sought after – Grand Slam. We played catch. We collected cards. We got into baseball.
It became something we did together. Soon, Rangers games were family time. It was something special. We marveled at the spectacular plays and the
home runs. The Rangers were in the new
park and it was beautiful. When we were
on vacation, we attended a Rangers game.
We were in the nosebleed section, but it was awesome.
We went to a Redhawks game in the Bricktown Ballpark in
Oklahoma City. They were a minor league
team for the Rangers at that time. We
were just a few rows back from the dugout.
The dirt was so red. The grass
was so green. The crack of the bat was
so close and we could actually hear the ball pop in the mitts. The game was alive. The experience was so real. The crowd was so into it. I became baseball crazy. I had to catch every baseball game I
could. Even baseball movies became of
interest. I can’t tell you how many
times I’ve seen Field of Dreams. I recently started a novel in which baseball
plays a significant role.
Of course kids grow, and in a small town which only has a
youth league, they eventually grew too old for playing baseball. One went to college. One is in high school where we don’t have a
team. Another would probably play if
there was a team for his age group. My
daughter does play softball. Yet, even
though the boys don’t play the game anymore, baseball is still one thing we can
get together on once in a while.
Last year, the Rangers made it to the Series. I’d been following them for years. I knew their names and positions. There is Michael Young, the calm, cool versatile
captain of the team. On second is
Kinsler, who once played for the Liberal Bee Jays just 30 miles from home (I
wish I’d been a follower then). Josh
Hamilton is an inspiration and a slugger.
There is Derick Holland, @Dutch_Oven45 on Twitter, the young
pitcher. Of course, that year everyone
was talking about Cliff Lee, who the Yankees took almost as quickly as the
series was over. I’d seen the bullpen
when it was at its worst and I’d watched as it improved. Certainly, there were others I wish we hadn’t
traded and this year we have Napoli, who I can hope never leaves. I had watched their careers and the trades. They had become a part of my life, our lives. So, we were all excited when they made the
playoffs and into the World Series, but then the Giants dashed our hopes.
This year, they were back.
They were good. It was going to
be their year. We watched the divisional
and conference games. All of the playoff
games were exciting; the anticipation was building with each game. Then, finally we were back in the big one –
The World Series. The Series proved to
be just as exciting and I was stressing through each game, but in the end the
Cards took home the trophy. The final game was disappointing, a heartbreaking
loss. And the worst part: baseball was over for the year.
It is amazing to see where life leads you. The kid, who thought he hated baseball, found
out he loves baseball. The kid, who was
scared to play, wishes he could play it now.
And a game, that was just meant to show my own kids how the game is
played, has become a part of our lives and something which can still bring us
together.
One of the greatest things about baseball: it starts all over again in the spring. No matter how the last season ended, the
slate is wiped clean and you are once again instilled with the hope that the
next season will be your year. The grass
greens up once again. The red dirt is
groomed and chalked. The bats crack and
the mitts pop; the crowds cheer, and God Bless America is proudly sung in the seventh
inning stretch. And all over the
country, fans kindle the hope that this year will be their year.
I can be proud of My Rangers for playing the game in a way which
displayed class and respect for the tradition, enough that even Cards fans
mentioned it on the Rangers Facebook page.
I can be proud they made it to the Series two years in a row, making
club history. I can be proud they made
this last Series one of the most exciting in the history of the game, bringing
in people who hadn’t watched a game in years.
And I am sincerely proud of all of those things, but I will be most
proud of the fact that they will be back in the spring to do it all again, and they
will find a way to fill me with the hope that next year will be our year.
