ELItorial: The glory days of baseball

By Peter Smith

During my younger years, "the glory days" if you will, a new baseball season got me more excited and explosive than the average Jerry Springer guest. I couldn't wait to see how the teams would shape up and I would make endless predictions. My father was amazed, and probably quite frightened, by my knowledge of baseball from past to present--every little detail from Hank Aaron's lifetime batting average to what day of the week Babe Ruth pointed to the sky in his prophetic affirmation of his complete domination of the game.

I recall when my parents took me and my obnoxious fourth grade friends to opening day at Wrigley Field. The trip was a birthday present from my parent, who knew how much I loved the game. I even had a baseball alarm clock that could only be turned off by being tossed against a wall. At that game, Barry Bonds, then of the Pittsburgh Pirates, hit a sizzling foul ball which smacked my mother square in the head. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. She didn't seem injured, but I knew there was a problem when the medics showed up. Although I was concerned about my mother's well-being, I was secretly infuriated with her for not catching the ball.

I collected baseball cards and dragged my father off to meet players at hotel card shows. I played so much baseball in my backyard that my coach at school nicknamed me "Golden Glove," and my shins are permanently bruised from catching my brother's fastballs in the dirt without protection. My parents even won a prize at an auction that allowed me to be a batboy for the Chicago White Sox one night. But somewhere along the way the magic faded. Maybe it was when Bob Gibson, a legendary pitcher from the St. Louis Cardinals, couldn't have cared less if I thought he had a great year in 1968, when I met him at a card show. Or maybe it was the time the card dealer wouldn't let me look at an old card because it didn't look like I was going to buy it. Or perhaps when players and management disputed pecuniary matters. The Joe DiMaggios and Lou Gehrigs had been replaced by John Q. Players who only cared about their contracts.

My anxieties about the game culminated in the strike of 1994-95. For me, it was over. All of the good baseball cards cost thousands of dollars, and the players had no more integrity than the card dealers. It was all about money. Forget it. For the next three years, I didn't really think about baseball. Some of the same friends who went with me to that fourth grade Cubs game went with me to a White Sox game last summer, sans parents. We found it mildly interesting when Mark McGwire hit a 550-foot home run, but for the most part, we just wanted to hang out somewhere different for a change. I was one of the fans lost to the strike.

Recently though, my interest in the game has been rekindled. I started paying attention to baseball again when Harry Caray left for the famed sportscasters booth in the sky. Like calling up an old friend, I leafed through the papers and read up on some teams. Surprisingly, I found that there is a lot to care about this year. I picked up a magazine and noticed that the cards which used to go for thousands of dollars had been drastically reduced. I was in Florida over spring break, and discovered that two teams were playing a mere 15 minutes away. I didn't attend any games, but I did run into Mark McGwire at a bar. My attitude of thinking that all baseball players are just dollar hounds was not immediately present. I mean, here he was, in a bar, hanging out and talking, like a normal person. This was the baseball I remember.

I have decided that this year, I will make a concerted effort to be interested in baseball. Maybe I won't hit my roommate in the head with my old baseball alarm clock every morning, but I will stay up-to-date on what is happening around the league. I urge those of you who felt as I did to take another look at the game. There is so much to watch this year: Mark McGwire or Ken Griffey, Jr. might break the home run record. Eyes will be on the Tampa Bay Devil Rays and the Arizona Diamondbacks as they debut. The Milwaukee Brewers made the big switch to the National League. Will the Florida Marlins be able to match last season's performance after purging their team of its best players? Will Cal Ripken, Jr.'s streak continue? How about the Cubs, who added stars Henry Rodriguez and Rod Beck to their lineup?

Back in my "glory days," I used to make wild predictions. I'm older and wiser now, but let me say this: World Series--Chicago Cubs in six, and rioters who lose their spouses in the hullaballoo end up on Springer.

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