Take Me Out to the Ballgame

I’m not much of a sports fan these days.  I feel guilty watching football knowing that some of the players will end up with brain injuries or suffer disabling pain for the rest of their lives from the bone crushing collisions that are part of the game.  I never got into basketball because my hometown, Pittsburgh, never had an NBA team.  And hockey, well, I follow the Penguins, but I rarely have had the patience to sit through an entire game. But baseball, well, I suppose you never forget your first love.

As a young boy growing up in Pittsburgh, I was a devoted Pirates fan. Roberto Clemente was my hero, whether making his signature basket catch, throwing out a runner trying for home, or banging out hits and driving in runs. Like many Pittsburghers, I grieved when “The Great One” died in a plane crash on his way to delivering aid to earthquake victims in Nicaragua.

Besides Clemente, there was second baseman Bill Mazeroski, the hero of the 1960 World Series and master of the double play. Fans were always thinking “home run” whenever Willie Stargell came to bat. And we all prayed that Steve Blass would be able to solve whatever ailment caused him to lose the ability to throw the ball over the plate. I’ve had the good fortune to watch the Pirates win three World Series titles in 1960, 1970 and 1979, and keep hoping for one more before I buy my ticket to the field of dreams in the sky.

Beyond the Pirates, I remember being able to watch so many great players when I was growing up in the 1960s. The Giants had Mays and McCovey, Juan Marichal and Gaylord Perry. The Dodgers had Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale. The Cardinals were always tough when Bob Gibson was pitching and the Cubs had “Ferguson Jenkins and his orchestra” to quote the Pirates colorful announcer, Bob Prince. There were also great players in the American League like Al Kaline, Rod Carew and 30-game winner Denny McClain, but I only got to see them in the All-Star Game or the World Series.

My love affair with baseball continued as an adult, especially after the Pirates moved into PNC Park, a short, pleasant walk from downtown where I worked. But with free agency and big market teams spending money like drunken sailors, small market Pittsburgh didn’t seem capable of putting a winning team on the field. Then in 2013, after a 20-year drought, the Pirates made it to the playoffs.

I was one of the 40,000 plus fans that squeezed into PNC Park to watch the wild card game between Pittsburgh and Cincinnati. It was the most exciting baseball game I ever attended. In the bottom of the second inning with Cueto pitching, Pirate fans began to mockingly chant, “Cue-to, Cue-to.” Clearly affected by the chant, Cueto dropped the ball, and the fans went wild. Then on his very next pitch, Russell Martin clubbed it out of the park. The fans were delirious.

Pittsburgh went on to win the game 6-2, but subsequently lost the Divisional playoff to St. Louis. In the past few years, the Pirates have again become perennial losers, but that doesn’t keep me from monitoring their progress in the standings.

I now live closer to Philadelphia, and I am trying to become a Phillies fan, but it’s tough when you lack history with the team. Also, I am struggling with how the game has evolved from the baseball that I learned in my boyhood. So many statistics are bandied about today that measure things that I haven’t a clue about. And don’t get me started on the universal designated hitter rule, the expanded playoffs and the pitch clock that have been added by the recently approved collective bargaining agreement.

But despite all the changes that have taken place over the past sixty years that I have followed baseball, when I hear the crack of a bat or the pop of a ball striking leather, I will be there watching my favorite sport and cheering on my favorite team.