93/365: 1974-1975

Wednesday, 27 August 2008.

 

40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]

An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.

 

For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.

 

Year 7: 1974-1975

 

I started the second grade, and the thing I wanted most in the world (other than for fellow second-grader, Mark Roth, to notice I existed), was a Pitch Back. Pitch Back was a netted, trampoline-like device that stood roughly perpendicular to the ground. Its purpose was apparently to launch a thrown baseball back at an unpredictable angle and speed at the person unfortunate enough to have thrown it in the first place. Let's just say it wasn't terribly accurate. But, oh how I wanted that thing! I started yammering on about it at least six months before Christmas, relentlessly badgering and pestering. When my birthday came and went with no Pitch Back, I was pretty sure I was never going to see it. And so it was that, when I snooped in my parents closet the week before Christmas and saw the Pitch Back, the sky opened up and all the angels of heaven began to sing. Naturally, it got about a week's worth of use before taking its place with the other dead and forgotten toys. Oh, my poor, once-loved Pitch Back!

 

This was in the time of The Ryan Express. Nolan Ryan (pitching for the Angels at the time) was the dominant pitcher in baseball. He threw seven no-hitters over the course of his career, and four of those came in just three seasons between 1973 and 1975. We were lucky enough to be present for one of them. I confess, I can not remember whether it was #3 or #4, but I suspect it was #3: September 28, 1974, versus the Minnesota Twins... the day before my birthday. Reviewing the box score now, I see that Ryan was absolutely ferocious, striking out 15 of the 27 Twins batters. When the game was over, the crowd stood and roared for what seemed to me like hours. As I was all of about 3 1/2 feet all, I couldn't see a thing. Later, we watched the news reports and were at once excited and disappointed that the camera had panned our third-base-line seats, but that the people standing in front of us were extremely large and, alas, opaque.

 

Who am I?

 

I am a baseball fan.

 

My dad introduced me to baseball. We would go to every opening day at Dodger Stadium, and spent as many Saturdays and Sundays as we could afford there, or over in Anaheim watching the Angels. Long before I understood anything about the mechanics of the game, I understood the grass, and the red dirt, and the blue sky. I knew so completely the smell of hot dogs slathered with mustard that I could close my eyes and conjure it up no matter where I was. I still can.

 

There's something about baseball that appeals to Americans. Even if you think it's utterly boring, chances are you still feel the sense of nostalgia it evokes. And even if you think you know nothing about the game, chances are you know more than you think. That's because, at its heart, it's a very simple game, and one that is quintessentially American, echoing all of the things most American children learned to hold dear about American ideals (whether we lived up to them being a different question, of course). In baseball, as in our idealized America, everyone gets a shot, from the crackerjack with the hot bat, down to the backup utility infielder in a slump. The teams take turns, one after the other, until each team has had an equal number of turns, and this all happens no matter how long it takes. Each pitch, each batter, each half-inning, each inning, and each game is a story, nested one inside the other, with a beginning, middle, and end... protagonist and antagonist... hero and villain. And each story is the classic human struggle, a battle of wits, wisdom, and muscle.

 

Baseball is the American story writ micro, and in dirt, grass, and sky.

 

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Done