Run Home.

Baseball.

As I see it, the one word above should be enough to sum up a lifetime of metaphor and emotion and there would not have to be a post which said more then that... in an ideal America, that is...

And I remember Alex McKeatten. He was all the way from Boston AND he had made-out with girls before, so to our little gang-trio growing up on that dead end drive in Otter Creek, when his family came up to stay for the summers it was a rough equivalent to King Richard The Lion Heart coming at the end of Disney's Robin Hood. And alot of things happened in those summers. But with Alex I meant baseball.

Two bags; one for gloves and one for balls. All the cards you could think of, and bats. 3-4 wood ones. And the steel one. No one could touch the steel one except for Alex. Keeping us peasants in our rightful place and doing well to remember who was mighty enough to have the girlfriend out of us.
And then we'd play. Really play. It had nothing to do with who won or lost. It was who could hit the ball the farthest. Who could make the most dramatic dive into the dust at home plate. The intensity of the run from 2nd to 3rd base, where you didn't hear anyone or anything but the wind in your ears and the wild in your face. That was running. You go for a "run" in the morning, you "run" to get there before class begins, you "run" because your late for a meeting. But real running is a survival instinct pre-built into all of us. Running to get away. Running because somethings chasing you. Run, someone is chasing you. From base to base you had purpose. REAL purpose. Think of the reasons you hurry today. Think of when your speeding to get somewhere for something "important". Now go to a park and watch kids play around. One of them is going faster then ten busy yuppies combined. Because he has reason. Because "IT!" is right behind them on the slide. Because last one to the swings is a rotten egg. Because the guy right behind you has the baseball and that patch of white heaven seen through the golden dust, is the one safe place on the planet. Instinct. Run because you need to. And then there was the spirit of the game I remember. The beauty. A sky so blue, looking directly into it would poison the older you with sweet incurable  nostalgia. The grasshoppers that littered the grass, and you didn't think twice about picking one up and cupping it in your hand. The idle of everyone; 3rd base drawing pictures in the dirt with their foot, outfield picking grass and telling jokes to 2nd while sitting cross legged. The all American sport. Wait, what a crude title for such a sweet summer dream gone past. "Sport"... Sport is what has yelling coaches, critics, easily offended fans, and tickets you have to pay for. No, not the all American sport. The all American past-time. Yes. Because that's what it is. It's magic. Its when families lay out quilts on the grass and eat picnic food while watching the game. Hot dogs, lemonade... It's the world of 9 year old tom-boys and faded denim... pin striped jerseys.

Sports are just sports. Baseball, well its more. Iv heard so much trash talk on it. "You don't do anything, you just stand there.", "It's so boring, you just swing at a ball". Most of this is jock-tokk, in their almighty comparison to football. Go ahead. Have your football. Sure it's fun. It's in your face. It's like an action movie. But its not baseball. Its not more then a sport. It's just that. A sport. Baseball is a way of life. A summer culture that  runs thick in hot-dog relish, warhead candies, the smell and feel of grass so green and and expansive it makes you wonder how earth and man could fathom up such a totality of perfect. Can Josh really climb the fence behind home plate? The conversations you start to have while playing catch with your closest friend or dad, and the hours pass by and you get into the repetitive motion of catch'n'throw... and you don't notice the sun dip, and the high, flat and painted clouds, that could challenge the northern lights for magnificence, with their pink and orange. The topics range from all the spectrum's of your life and the thoughts and philosophies you start to share with each other. The field lights turn on and finally comes the moment when you miss the ball and have to go far to fetch it out of the bushes. Your mind clicks and your realize how late it is and how bug bitten you are. And you leave the premise of that field, literally that field of dreams, and you realize its night time. That the rest of the world is dark, and not lit by the soft orange glow of the field lights, shinning high from the top of their pine, tar covered poles.

Cant relate? Then drop what your doing. Take a little time out of your weekend to go to a baseball field. Go when its empty. Go with your friends or kids. Go with some sodas, a ball, and gloves. Rock the field. Play catch, pitch and bat, or get enough to run a whole game. Laugh, name call, steal bases, plow dirt, run because someone is chasing you. Hold a glove or ball up to your face. Smell it and feel it against you cheek. You'll know what I'm talking about. Or just go alone and walk through a baseball field. Don't have equipment or a ball? Sit on the bleachers with a friend and talk. The spirit is there. And there is nothing quite like it.




And they'll walk out to the bleachers; sit in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh... people will come Ray. People will most definitely come.- Field Of Dreams.



You gotta be a man to play baseball for a living, but you gotta have a lot of little boy in you, too.  ~Roy Campanella

There are three things in my life which I really love:  God, my family, and baseball.  The only problem - once baseball season starts, I change the order around a bit.  ~Al Gallagher, 1971

Baseball was made for kids, and grown-ups only screw it up.  ~Bob Lemon

When they start the game, they don't yell, "Work ball."  They say, "Play ball."  ~Willie Stargell, 1981

Baseball is a game where a curve is an optical illusion, a screwball can be a pitch or a person, stealing is legal and you can spit anywhere you like except in the umpire's eye or on the ball.  ~Jim Murray

Baseball, to me, is still the national pastime because it is a summer game.  I feel that almost all Americans are summer people, that summer is what they think of when they think of their childhood.  I think it stirs up an incredible emotion within people.  ~Steve Busby, in Washington Post, 8 July 1974
If a horse can't eat it, I don't want to play on it.  ~Dick Allen, on artificial turf, 1970

That's what I wish for. Chance to squint at a sky so blue that it hurts your eyes just to look at it. To feel the tingling in your arm as you connect with the ball. To run the bases - stretch a double into a triple, and flop face-first into third, wrap your arms around the bag.-Field Of Dreams.



People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball.  I'll tell you what I do.  I stare out the window and wait for spring.  ~Rogers Hornsby


I'm convinced that every boy, in his heart, would rather steal second base than an automobile.  ~Tom Clark

I don't love baseball.  I don't love most of today's players.  I don't love the owners.  I do love, however, the baseball that is in the heads of baseball fans.  I love the dreams of glory of 10-year-olds, the reminiscences of 70-year-olds.  The greatest baseball arena is in our heads, what we bring to the games, to the telecasts, to reading newspaper reports.  ~Stan Isaacs, "Diamond-Studded Memories," Newsday, 9 April 1990

It breaks your heart.  It is designed to break your heart.  The game begins in spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.  ~A. Bartlett Giamatti, "The Green Fields of the Mind," Yale Alumni Magazine, November 1977...