Baseball

I was recently watching a Twins game on TV when my three-year-old daughter asked me, “Daddy, why do you like baseball?” My answer was simply, “Because I do.” Then I started thinking, “Why do I like baseball?” To the untrained eye baseball is simple. Someone throws a ball, someone hits the ball, and someone tries to catch the ball. Repeat for nine innings. If that were the case, I would find baseball boring as well. I love talking baseball while I watch a game; I love watching a perfectly executed sacrifice bunt. To me the game is so much more than pitch, hit and catch.

After some more thought, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love baseball. A lot of my childhood memories were from a baseball park. I remember going to games with my dad. We would get there early to watch batting practice and stay late trying to get autographs. I remember holding Calvin Griffiths (owner of the Twins at the time) hot dog while he signed an autograph. I also remember following Pete Rose as he left the park saying “Mr. Rose, Mr. Rose.” He turned around and said, “What do you want kid?” He ended up signing my ball for me.

I remember our summers being spent at a ballpark. Dad would come home from work and rush to the park. At the time there was nothing better than being in the dugout with him and his team. I used to think the players on his team were larger than life. They were only 15-16 years old, but they were “grown ups” to me. I remember the year I was finally old enough to play for my dad. I remember how cool I thought the uniforms were, blue pinstripes. I also remember being younger than the rest of the team and how nervous I was. I ended up making the last out of the season year by grounding out to the pitcher. I was just happy I didn’t strike out. I remember playing at Parade Stadium for the first time. I had watched many games at Parade. To me it was like a big league ballpark. The dirt was dark and soft, not brown and hard like most parks. The outfield was huge with ivy on the fences. When I finally got to play there it was worth the wait.

I remember going to the second game of the ’87 World Series with my dad. We parked miles away and walked to the Metrodome. We sat on the first base side in the upper deck. The Twins won and I remember the long walk back to the car didn’t seem so far. I have many more of these types of memories, way too many to list.

So I guess to me, baseball is all about the memories. More specifically, memories of being with my dad. No matter what we are doing, we can always talk baseball. I didn’t understand the importance of memories like this until I had kids of my own. I hope my kids will take to baseball the way I did. I can’t wait to take them to their first Twins game. To see the look on their faces when they see a big league park for the first time. To hear the sounds of baseball, the crack of the bat, and the thump of the ball hitting the catchers mitt. To watch them be more interested in eating their first big league hot dog than who is up to bat. To watch them sitting there in their Twins caps that keep falling down into their eyes and their two sizes too big Mauer jerseys on, trying to lick up that last bit of ice cream before it melts. I know they won’t remember who won, but I hope they remember being there with dad. After all that is what matters when you love baseball like I do.