Sunday, April 15, 2007
Thirty Years In Baseball and Happy Jackie Robinson Day
Somehow I feel like I should hear Mel Allen’s voice announcing this topic. This year is the 30th anniversary of my becoming a baseball fan. I have a huge baseball display in my basement that includes very little of any real value to anyone but me, with the possible exception of the sheet music from the original 1908 version of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”, which I bought on ebay for next to nothing. I saw a copy of it at Cooperstown at the Baseball Hall of Fame and was very pleased to see it, in an “I’ve been validated!” sort of way. (Makes me sound like a parking ticket, doesn’t it?)
The reason it took me until the age of 20 to become a baseball fan is because when I was growing up, any time I joined my father in watching any kind of sport on television, my questions were met with “Shut up! I’m trying to watch the damned game!” Although he really was a nice person, my father was not noted for his patience in general, but especially with children and animals; oddly enough, though, the more impatient he got, the more kids and pets loved him, until he or they crossed the line and he reached the point of being almost abusive. By the time I might have been joining him in front of the TV to watch sports, I already knew not to cross that line, so I never asked too many questions after the first one, and never learned much about sports until I encountered someone who had the patience to answer all of my questions, no matter how inane they might seem.
Even though I didn’t become a baseball fan until 1977 and didn’t care a rat’s ass about it before then, oddly enough, my dad and I shared a baseball moment three years earlier that was pretty special, even to me, and lo these many years later, I cherish it. One April evening in 1974, just about 33 years ago today, I was about 16 years old and full of myself in a way that only 16-year-old girls can be, and I was going through the house to do something really important. My dad said as I went by him, “Hey, baby, come here.” That sounds sexual, but he always called me “baby” because I’m the baby of the family (not because I did some dirty dancing with Patrick Swayze and nobody puts me in a corner). Anyway, when I answered impatiently, my dialogue was “WHAT?!” but my tone of voice said, “What the hell do you want? I’m busy!” “Come here a minute.” “What do you want? I’m busy!” This time I articulated the words and not just the tone of voice. “Come and watch this. This is important. That guy at bat, Hank Aaron, is about to break a record.” “Well, that doesn’t sound like such a big deal. Last time I broke a record, all I got was a fight from my brother.” “No, not that kind of record – a sports record.” I was getting nowhere with my argument of having something better to do, so I sat down and joined him in watching Hank Aaron break Babe Ruth’s homerun record. At the time, it was merely an act of shut-up-Daddy, but with my later becoming not just a baseball fan, but a Braves fan, and Daddy’s being gone for almost three years, now that moment looms large in my memory and it feels so damned good to have that memory of sharing something really special with my dad, even if I didn’t appreciate it as such at the time.
It’s actually Hank Aaron’s fault I’m a baseball fan anyway. He was supposed to show up for a promotional game for which Mike had bought advanced tickets that even had Hank’s name on them, touting him as the guest of honor. That night, I showed up and he didn’t, and I still haven’t ever seen him live and in person. But it was that night that I started getting a serious tutorial in the finer details of baseball.
When Hank retired from playing in 1976, his homerun total was 755, a record which Barry Bonds is getting closer to breaking every year, and frankly, this will probably be the year he does it. However, what saddens me is not that Barry Bonds will break Hank’s record – Cal Ripken, Jr., broke Lou Gehrig’s long-standing consecutive games played in 1995, and I am passionately fond of Lou Gehrig, but I cried like a proud mama when Cal broke his record. (I can almost hear Tom Hanks saying, “There’s no crying in baseball!” Tom doesn’t watch baseball at my house.) What saddens me greatly about Hank’s record-breaking performances is that every time I have ever heard him interviewed on the subject, all he talks about is the racism he faced at the time. So rather than taking pride (and I mean pride, not arrogance) in his accomplishments and being proud to represent baseball so stunningly, all he seems to have taken away from his achievements is the negative side of it. Granted, I’m sure it was no fun receiving death threats and being targeted with overt racism; I’m sorry it overshadowed the event and I don’t mean to minimize it, but damnation, Hank, if that’s all you got out of it, you might just as well have stayed home. Isn’t it about time you stopped focusing on that and look at it and say, “Hey, I did something fan-damn-tastic that nobody else ever did before, and as for the racists, well, fuck ‘em. They can’t take that away from me, even if someone else comes along and breaks my record someday.” Well, anyway, I’m proud of him and glad he did it and proud to have his likeness on my Wheaties box and a Christmas ornament in my baseball collection.
The reason it took me until the age of 20 to become a baseball fan is because when I was growing up, any time I joined my father in watching any kind of sport on television, my questions were met with “Shut up! I’m trying to watch the damned game!” Although he really was a nice person, my father was not noted for his patience in general, but especially with children and animals; oddly enough, though, the more impatient he got, the more kids and pets loved him, until he or they crossed the line and he reached the point of being almost abusive. By the time I might have been joining him in front of the TV to watch sports, I already knew not to cross that line, so I never asked too many questions after the first one, and never learned much about sports until I encountered someone who had the patience to answer all of my questions, no matter how inane they might seem.
Even though I didn’t become a baseball fan until 1977 and didn’t care a rat’s ass about it before then, oddly enough, my dad and I shared a baseball moment three years earlier that was pretty special, even to me, and lo these many years later, I cherish it. One April evening in 1974, just about 33 years ago today, I was about 16 years old and full of myself in a way that only 16-year-old girls can be, and I was going through the house to do something really important. My dad said as I went by him, “Hey, baby, come here.” That sounds sexual, but he always called me “baby” because I’m the baby of the family (not because I did some dirty dancing with Patrick Swayze and nobody puts me in a corner). Anyway, when I answered impatiently, my dialogue was “WHAT?!” but my tone of voice said, “What the hell do you want? I’m busy!” “Come here a minute.” “What do you want? I’m busy!” This time I articulated the words and not just the tone of voice. “Come and watch this. This is important. That guy at bat, Hank Aaron, is about to break a record.” “Well, that doesn’t sound like such a big deal. Last time I broke a record, all I got was a fight from my brother.” “No, not that kind of record – a sports record.” I was getting nowhere with my argument of having something better to do, so I sat down and joined him in watching Hank Aaron break Babe Ruth’s homerun record. At the time, it was merely an act of shut-up-Daddy, but with my later becoming not just a baseball fan, but a Braves fan, and Daddy’s being gone for almost three years, now that moment looms large in my memory and it feels so damned good to have that memory of sharing something really special with my dad, even if I didn’t appreciate it as such at the time.
It’s actually Hank Aaron’s fault I’m a baseball fan anyway. He was supposed to show up for a promotional game for which Mike had bought advanced tickets that even had Hank’s name on them, touting him as the guest of honor. That night, I showed up and he didn’t, and I still haven’t ever seen him live and in person. But it was that night that I started getting a serious tutorial in the finer details of baseball.
When Hank retired from playing in 1976, his homerun total was 755, a record which Barry Bonds is getting closer to breaking every year, and frankly, this will probably be the year he does it. However, what saddens me is not that Barry Bonds will break Hank’s record – Cal Ripken, Jr., broke Lou Gehrig’s long-standing consecutive games played in 1995, and I am passionately fond of Lou Gehrig, but I cried like a proud mama when Cal broke his record. (I can almost hear Tom Hanks saying, “There’s no crying in baseball!” Tom doesn’t watch baseball at my house.) What saddens me greatly about Hank’s record-breaking performances is that every time I have ever heard him interviewed on the subject, all he talks about is the racism he faced at the time. So rather than taking pride (and I mean pride, not arrogance) in his accomplishments and being proud to represent baseball so stunningly, all he seems to have taken away from his achievements is the negative side of it. Granted, I’m sure it was no fun receiving death threats and being targeted with overt racism; I’m sorry it overshadowed the event and I don’t mean to minimize it, but damnation, Hank, if that’s all you got out of it, you might just as well have stayed home. Isn’t it about time you stopped focusing on that and look at it and say, “Hey, I did something fan-damn-tastic that nobody else ever did before, and as for the racists, well, fuck ‘em. They can’t take that away from me, even if someone else comes along and breaks my record someday.” Well, anyway, I’m proud of him and glad he did it and proud to have his likeness on my Wheaties box and a Christmas ornament in my baseball collection.
Labels: Baseball
# posted by Anne Arky @ 5:20 PM 
