It’s Baseball Again

May has ended and the Red Sox are still reining World Series champions, so the voices aren’t prominent at all, not like they always were to me in years prior. The cycle of a fast start, frustrating middle and hopefully heroic ending to every season has been interrupted. Nomar is out for months, but our shortstop is healthy. Everyone smiles, the games are exciting, and at no time am I interested in the drama that has accompanied every one of my Sox seasons before this one. The hashing and rehashing of semantics and continuous ‘nuh-uh’ being thrown around by New England’s version of ‘Da Bears’ on sports radio (The Big Show) is about as interesting to me now as this new show on ABC with celebrities learning how to dance.

It’s all good for now, and when David Wells stumbles in a few starts and goes on the DL, I actually have faith that he’ll come back and turn it around. And if he doesn’t, it doesn’t mean anything about anybody. When Johnny Damon provides a quote about going the way of Ricky Williams, and you know the encoded message may have something to do with ganja, he’s not being traded for Carl Everett and a relief pitcher that gives up a walk per inning. Nobody on the TV screen takes it that seriously, neither does Jerry Remy, and neither do I anymore. The trick is to surrender to the flow, get in a ‘Papi’ state of mind and decide it’s time to enjoy it or not bother with it at all.

The luxury success provides is an amazing thing. I’m noticing the movement of a guy’s pitches and how good his location is when trying to tie a batter up. Noticing how a hitter is gearing up for a specific pitch, thinking of it and then it comes and they foul it off. The nuance that caused me to fall in love with baseball in the first place has broken through the noise and the hype and it’s once again something pure, like it was as a child. Remy is pointing out the details my father would have for me back then, as details of my own start to pile up in waiting for the day my children are breaking in their gloves and learning it all for the first time.

I felt this lighthearted about the Sox once last year when I was lucky enough to have caught two games in Colorado. Inside Coors Stadium there were thousands of people just like me who had turned a Sox road trip into a vacation. The novelty of bringing Fenway on the road never really gets old, but that’s not the part I enjoyed the most. Instead it was this three innings during game three of that series when I met a retired guy who had season tickets to the Rockies. Standing up in the concourse behind the lower section facing the pitcher, spitting out sunflower seed shells and reminiscing names like Walt Weiss and John Wasdin. Discussing how the AAA farm team plays at almost 1000 feet higher in Colorado Springs. Why Royce Clayton never looks like he’s having any fun and how Schillling didn’t throw as many splitters as expected the night before.

Then about how Pokey was keeping his front shoulder in there and staying put even on the inside pitches, like he had a new lease on life, to which he obliges our analysis with a walk. The old man’s from Minnesotta originally and so the conversation switches to how great of an organization they’ve got up there in comparison, considering all the players they lose to free agency. ‘Gary Gaetti coaches in Houston now.’ “I didn’t know that.” ‘Yea, he’s the hitting coach down there.’ “That lineup was full of guys who approached at bats the right way.” ‘Oh yea. Someday I hope these guys (Rockies) figure that part of the game out, the front office and coaching.’ “That’s the name of the game. Doing the little things over and over from top to bottom and keeping the farm system stocked” ‘Yea…so this kid Miles is alright, but really is more of an 8 or 9 hitter.’ It wasn’t about who was to blame or anything negative, just a love of the game, warts and all. The whole conversation was remarkable, like something I could remember about the game in only a nostalgic sense.

And now that the 900-pound gorilla is out of the room for good, the game is no longer about all that drama the Boston media pumps into the game. The sad back-story is finally irrelevant. They’re repackaging that tired old crap exclusively for Wrigley Field from now on. Knowing who’s to blame for a loss in May doesn’t matter to me now. It’s like the blinders have come off and instead of feeling emotional about it at all, I’m enjoying the game with a newfound understanding that it’s a long season and they’re all doing their best. This thing I felt talking baseball with the old man with season tickets to see his team – the worst in baseball – play the game he loves, is part of the trip everyday now for me. It’s baseball again.