The Church of Baseball

I've tried 'em all, I really have, and the only church that truly feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the Church of Baseball.  -Annie Savoy in Bull Durham

I spent yesterday afternoon at the ballpark.  I’m as far removed from Annie Savoy as one could get, but I sometimes entertain thoughts of forgoing jeans and wearing a flirty little skirt out to the park to tempt our home team boys with my Cracker Jacks.

Did I say that?

Our little Springfield Cardys didn’t perform to expectation, but it didn’t lessen the pure excitement of being at the ballpark on a perfect Sunday afternoon.

I had the sun shining on my head, a cold beer in my hand and a bag of peanuts.

Sometimes life really is good. Sometimes you capture a moment in your mind.  A moment that despite whatever other unpleasant business is going on in your life, is perfect.  It’s a fleeting moment of pure and utter joy.

I love the crack of the bat, the seventh inning stretch, the ridiculous tricycle races and the games of musical chairs that usher you from inning to inning. I love Louie and Fetch.  I love the free t-shirts that come blasting out of that blasted cannon-even though I’ve yet to catch one.

Some argue baseball is slow.  It lacks excitement. But isn’t that perfection on a lazy spring afternoon?

Make no mistake.  Any sporting event when watched live is an adventure and an event to be savored.

I get a kick out of sitting in Chief’s stadium once a year, doing the wave, listening to the deafening crowd and having snow spit in my face.

I adore high school basketball-the smell of the gym, the squeak of tennis shoes on the floor, the whistle blowing, the buzzer blaring.  I could watch those boys run up and down the court for hours-and do.

But baseball is the sport I understand. I see what the ump should do and then bitch when he doesn’t do it.  I cry out at a foul ball.  I cry ‘foul’ when a batter wimps out and bunts instead of going for it.  I scream, “That ball was in!”

Oops-wrong sport.

You see, I get baseball, and it gets me, because I’m slow and lack excitement.

 …but I’m perfection on a lazy spring afternoon.