Tossing the Old Pill...

Baseball was my first sports love. The summer I turned 8, when most boys start to really get into sports, the Mets won the World Series. I watched or listened to every game that year, and could rattle off batting averages and pitching statistics. I remember they let out of school early to watch the lase Series game, and I ran into the house just in time to see Cleon Jones make the final out, and drop to one knee.

Baseball was also my best sport to play. I was a serviceable first baseman, since that position required little foot speed, which I had in inverse proportion to charm and intelligence. I did pretty well in Little League, and actually tried out and made my high school team as a sophomore. Unfortunately, my non sports friends (they came to the games and smoked pot behind the dugout while cheering for me, inviting the wrath of the coach and my teammates, who took the game far too seriously) caused me to quit organized baseball. I still have some small regrets about this today.

Anyway, as a spectator, I left baseball behind to become an afficionado of football, the much more exciting and passionate game, particularly when my beloved Hurricanes are playing well. I watched the Marlins in 2 World Series games, but haven't seen a MLB contest since then.

Last week, I got an unexpected urge to go out to a game. The MArlins were playing my boyhood team, the Mets, and I got some tickets from my banker, and went to the stadium. All of the cliches still apply, even though the Marlins play (for now) and a football stadium. The grass was still amazingly green, and the sounds of the ball being hit or caught were terrific.

I sat at the game, with a lovely middle aged banker who was born in Cuba, and knew baseball pretty well. Still, she had never considered that it was the one major sport without a time clock --the game itself defines the time, not the other way around. This is the way life is, I commented. I think she thinks I'm deep and significant.

Anyway --I had a thoroughly enjoyable evening. I left in the 6th inning, with the MArlins down 7-0. The many Mets fans there were loving it --it seemed many were NY Puerto Ricans, and they cheered loudly in Spanish. The Marlins ended up losing 13-0, and I couldn't have cared less.

Now, I have a new mission --to see a game this summer at Shea, before they knock down the stadium of my childhood. I think I'm going to accomplish this goal.

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