Tomorrow is a big day, filled with anticipation, love, and more than a little excitement. It is, of course, the first day major league pitchers and catchers report to spring training.
About once a year I set aside my usual topic of education and say something about our national pastime. Occasionally I’ll try to tie baseball to something related to teaching and learning, but just as often I just let my love of the game have the stage for its annual post. Baseball is, like life, or learning, a subject that invites waxing poetic.
So… Pitchers and Catchers.
I scraped ice from my windshield this morning, bundled up against the 28°, and headed to work in the dark. The trees around my house are bare, and even though a few intrepid daffodils are starting to poke up through the flowerbeds, spring seems miles away.
Somewhere in warmer climes professional baseball players are beginning to arrive to play ball. They are loosening up arms, jogging along outfield walls, and preparing for the long season they hope won’t end until October. Between now and then is the end of winter, the full of summer, and the beginning of fall, and with their arrival, forgetting what the frost tells me every morning, is spring.
With spring my thoughts span memory, lighting on the time when I was twelve and my dad took me to see a college ballgame where Warren Spahn was coaching. I wanted to much to get his autograph, but the game was going long it was almost time for me to leave. I went up to the chain link dugout between innings and asked: “Mr. Spahn. Mr. Spahn. Could I have an autograph?” He frowned at me. “We’re in the middle of a ballgame,” he chided. “I know,” I apologized, “but I’m catching a game in half an hour and I have to go.” He nodded and signed the paper I handed him. I still have that autograph.
Pitchers and Catchers.
I think about going with my uncle to the Metrodome in Minnesota to see Frank “Sweet Music” Viola pitch for the Twins. It was the dome’s first year and the air conditioning wasn’t working. We sweated into the plastic seats and I got to see the imperial Carl Yastrzemski stride across the field ignoring everyone in the stands. Afterward we went to a little hole in the wall bar for coney dogs. There were black and white photos of athletes everywhere, memorabilia, patrons who looked like they might have been sitting in those worn out booths for decades. It was a place unlike any other I’d ever seen, and at thirteen I felt like I had been welcomed into adulthood.
Pitchers and Catchers.
My team did not win the World Series last year. They did not win the year before that, or the year before that. In fact while I have been with my wife for 26 years, she has never known me when my team won the series.
But with the arrival of pitchers and catchers hope returns to fans like me. We see under the southwestern sun …possibility. My team may not be playing come this October, but they might. They certainly will be in the background of my April and May, June and July, August and September.
They will be on the radio, my favorite window into the game, while I finish this school year and begin the next. They will fill the hours of summer and the first cool days of autumn. And if my team isn’t out of the running by the all star break, and maybe even if they are, they will provide a chance for hope every night, 162 times between now and the end of September.
When I am given the chance, loving the game as I do, I will strive to have the grace of Warren Spahn and avoid the superiority of Carl Yastrzemski, at least as they seemed on the days when their paths crossed mine. I will do my best to show those around me the generosity of my uncle, sharing a coney dog (whatever that might be a metaphor for), and show everyone around me the smiling optimism captured in the notion: “Maybe this year.”
Until the first pitch is thrown, which now feels like it will be soon, I will scrape my windshield and think about spring.