The Divinity of Baseball

My wife was a very spiritual person before she passed away, but the religious fervor never caught in me and, while I would whoop and jump and howl at sports events akin to a Pentecostal revival attendee, I’d pretty much sit taciturn in church.

Maybe it’s because I was raised a Methodist and was taught to keep my spirituality close to the vest, much like people hide alcoholism, criminal tendencies and being a fan of the designated hitter.

Or maybe it’s because, despite her spirit-filled way and prayers for health, my wife died after a lengthy illness. Maybe I saw that the hand-waving fanaticism wasn’t worth the effort. It wasn’t going to work. What happens just happens and I had no part in its outcome. I couldn’t keep her healthy despite the prayers.

But, when she was alive, she tried to convince me to be closer to Thee and her walk with the Lord gave her Godly patience to deal with me. She had a photograph — well, actually it was an artist’s rendering — of Jesus on the bedroom wall. I’d walk by it and point, saying, “Jesus Christ,” in a voice more reserved for angry surprise. I thought it was funny. She didn’t.

Her patience with me continued; she was tolerant of my sports obsession and even encouraged it. 

My wife was good friends with the wife of the local college baseball coach. The coach played for the Minnesota Twins in 1964 and met the heroes of my youth — Harmon Killebrew, Bob Allison and rookie Tony Oliva. By association, the coach became my hero.

So, one day, while at the church we attended, the minister instructed us to greet our pew neighbors and tell them how good life was. My wife nudged me and pointed to the coach. “Go over there and welcome him,” she said. “He’d appreciate it.”

While the rest of the congregation crowed about glorious days and salvation, I shyly edged to the coach. He looked at me suspiciously and then offered his hand. I was at a loss of word. My Methodist upbringing forebade me from publicly blessing him or speaking in tongues.

Instead, I said the first thing that came to mind. “How does the infield look this year?” I asked.

I think he was relieved at the question and answered it easily.

A friendship developed and we spent time together. We’d go fishing and he would talk about those old Twins’ days and, later when he was playing with the Yankees’ minor league team in Columbus, throwing grounders to Mickey  Mantle in spring training.

God had to be involved in getting that friendship arranged.

So, while some may think I was being sacrilegious, talking sports in a church while the rest of the gang was being jolly for Jehovah, I think God smiled on us. Sports is equated to a religion. Baseball stadiums are called “cathedrals” in hack sports writers’ columns and there’s a reason for it. Walk in any baseball stadium and you get a spiritual awakening. I’ve felt it when entering Busch Stadium in St. Louis, the old Vet in Philadelphia, the since-demolished Ray Winder Field in Little Rock, numerous school baseball fields and even the Metrodome in Minneapolis.

And if you want to get religious, the concept of baseball is divine. It’s above the human element and there’s an indescribable beauty about it. Me describing the game is similar to hearing my wife’s friends talk about their religion.

Memories of the Games

There’s a unifying theme about the memories of baseball that time can’t deny. It may be the basic foundation that makes the sport so attractive and, despite changes over the years in the way the game is presented — flashing scoreboards, the instant SABR stats available for fans at the park, the intensity of the activity between innings — the heart of the game remains the same.

A friend of mine took his family to St. Louis a few weeks ago to watch a Cardinals baseball game. It was the first game his 9-year-old daughter, a  budding baseball aficionado, had ever gone to and it was the first my friend had been to in years.

He splurged and got seats along the first base side, five rows above the dugout. He said it was like watching the game as a first base coach. The perspective was totally different than from watching on television, which presents the game, mostly, from a centerfield camera.

His wife took photographs on her digital camera and he shot video of the game. He captured San Diego Padres’ outfielder Will Venable hitting a leadoff home run on the second pitch of the game and he had video of a great stop of a hard grounder that Cardinals’ shortstop Rafael Furcal made. He also had close-ups of his favorite player, reliever Jason Motte.

His memories were preserved, albeit digitally, for generations to come on his computer.

Eighty years ago, his uncle went to a Cardinals’ game and captured memories as well. In 1932, the uncle saw the Cardinals host the Cubs on Aug. 13. We know this because my friend still has the scorecard his uncle filled out in pencil. Listed in capital letters that were printed meticulously eight decades ago were names like Frankie Frisch, James “Ripper” Collins, Ernie Orsatti and Cubs pitcher Charlie Root. Root, fans may remember, was on the mound some two months later when Babe Ruth supposedly pointed to the outfield and then whacked his home run.

Two games. Two sets of memories. 

My friend’s game saved by converting digital images into electronic impulses to be viewed on a computer screen. His uncle’s game saved in blocky pencil-written print.

But there was the interlocking point of it all. My friend brought back a packet of things from the game to show me. He had an All-Star ballot, game stats that were inserted into the program and an unblemished scorecard for the game.

He said he’d fill the scorecard out later, after he checked the game on the internet.