The Daily Procrastinator

On Monday night, I excitedly rushed to the local Buffalo Wild Wings to get a good table in the bar. I made sure I could see the big-screen TVs, ordered a beer, and settled in for the most important game of the Spring. The only thing that put a damper on my evening was all the damn basketball fans who gathered to watch the final game of that interminable tournament. I braved hordes of them so I could get a good seat for the Astros’ season opener.

I get nostalgic just from looking at images like this...

That’s right, people. I’m excited, really excited, that baseball season has arrived. You see, my love affair with baseball stretches back literally as far as I can remember. One of my earliest memories is of watching my father play in a city-league fastpitch game when I was barely old enough to walk. I can’t remember a day when I didn’t own a baseball mitt. The neighborhood where I grew up had about 15 boys who were close enough in age to get a game of baseball going literally every day of every summer from about 1987 until 1992. I watched my home team win the World Series in 1987 and 1991. I can still name every position player from both of those fantastic Twins teams. Baseball was a central point of my childhood. It’s a game of my past.

When the players’ union decided to quibble with the management a few years back, and we all had to endure strikes and other shenanigans from the players, I bailed out on baseball. I stayed gone for a long time, too. I’m just not into celebrity millionaires who whine because they don’t get paid enough. A few years ago, though, my buddy WrongFoot (who you may recall from his St. Patrick’s Day hijinks) got me started again. All summer long, any day they had a game, he had the Astros on one of his TVs. That’s right. There were two TVs in WrongFoot’s living room, one for sports and another for more sports. This is a tradition that both WrongFoot and I have chosen to continue to this very day. It’s a game of obsession.

Once WF got me started again, I fell back into my old ways. I have rediscovered my love for America’s pastime. Nothing in the world could be more indicative of summertime than baseball on the TV or radio, a cold bottle of beer in one hand, and a spatula in the other as I stand in front of a smoky Weber grill. Baseball IS summer, and that’s all there is to it. It’s a game of sunny days and charcoal.

I have acquaintances (because who could be friends with such people?) who say things like, “How can you watch baseball? It’s so BORING.” These misguided souls just don’t understand. Baseball is the easiest sport in the world to watch on TV. If you want to sit and really concentrate on the game, there are countless nuances to observe: the defensive shift against a left-handed hitter, the way a pitcher changes his pitch selection the second time through the line-up, the cat-and-mouse games a baserunner plays with the catcher, and the hitter keeping his hands back so he can slap the ball into the opposite field instead of grounding out to his strong side. It’s a game of a million details.

If you’re not in the mood to study the game, though, you can also watch baseball far more casually. I can stand at the grill and just listen to the commentators tell me about the game while I have another conversation or concentrate on my steaks. If anything truly astonishing happens–a towering home run, an acrobatic double play, or a diving catch in center field–they’ll give me a nice slow-motion replay. It’s a game of grand moments.

The Astros lost to the Cubs with flying colors, and I don’t even care. I’m just glad to see baseball on TV. Another of the beautiful parts of baseball is that the season is 162 games long. One loss doesn’t really mean anything. Hot streaks and slumps come and go. Baseball fans know–just know–that their boys will step it up tomorrow, next week, next month, and get back on the winning side of the ledger. It’s game of hope.

Sure, football is more exciting and fast-paced than baseball. One could argue that basketball, with its last-second buzzer beaters, is more intense. Certainly, ice hockey is a greater gladatorial spectacle. Baseball, though, is epic. What moment in sports is greater than watching the pitcher mop the sweat from his brow and look to the catcher for the sign that will decide the pitch he’s going to throw the opposing clean-up hitter, who’s threatening to drive in the tying run in the bottom of the ninth? What else could make thousands of people hold their breath, cross their fingers, and silently mouth the words, “Come on come on come on”? Even if you’re not usually a baseball fan, tune in to a game during this opening week and see what we fans see all summer long: It’s a game of grandeur.