My Love Affair with Baseball

I've really been caught up in the World Series this year, even though my favorite teams (the Pittsburgh Pirates and the San Diego Padres) aren't in it at all. Part of my enthusiasm has to do with the fact that I have a deep crush on Tim Lincecum of the San Francisco Giants. (I love that long hair.) But mostly it has to do with my deep and abiding love for the sport of baseball.

While watching game three with Kirby last night my youngest daughter Allison walked through the living room, looked at the television and pronounced "Ewww. Baseball. Ugh."

"Why don't you like baseball?" I asked her.

"It's sooo totally boring!" she said with a sniff of disgust that only a twelve-year-old can muster, then she tossed her hair and huffed out of the room.

As I was really into the game at the time I didn't stop to tell her how totally and completely wrong she was. Baseball isn't boring at all! I honestly believe that anyone who thinks that baseball is boring, too slow or not exciting enough has never really watched a game and appreciated all the subtle nuances that make for an exciting match up.

Don't get me wrong; I love all sports. I love football, hockey, basketball (mostly college; the NBA annoys me for some reason - unless the Pacers are winning, that is.) I am an equal opportunity sports fan. But baseball is a thinking woman's game. It's more cerebral than any other sport; there is a calculating intensity to the pace of the game. What pitch will be thrown? Will this player get walked? And there is nothing more exciting than watching a shutout or a closer coming out on the field to put the game away; it gets my blood pumping like nothing else.

Living in San Diego during the late '90's I remember how awesome it was to be at a game and hear the opening toll of Hell's Bells by AC/DC; you knew Trevor Hoffman was coming out on the field to do something amazing. And getting to watch Ricky Henderson steal bases, or the legendary Tony Guinn playing his last seasons (a little slower perhaps, but still great!) And of course, I was completely infatuated with Ryan Klesko and was visibly angry when, a few years after we moved back to Indiana, I found out about his request to be traded to the Atlanta Braves. (The Braves Ryan? Really?? What were you thinking man!!!)

My passion for the sport started early, when my grandpa would take me to Cincinnati Reds games; I always took my mitt so that I could catch a foul ball (never happened) and I always ended up lying in the back seat of the car during the hour-and-a-half drive home with a stomach ache because of too many hot dogs and sodas. Grandpa was a great teacher about the sport. He explained strategy, how to recognize different pitches and why the designated hitter rule is a sure sign of communist activity in America. He loved Pete Rose and was sorely disappointed by his dismissal from the game and his omission from the Baseball Hall of Fame. ("I bet every one of them gambles - Pete just got caught is all!")

Baseball is a gentleman's game; it is America's game. One of the greatest things you can do as a family is to head to a ballpark, explain the game to your kids, and let them get sick on hot dogs while clutching their mitt, looking out for foul balls. Oh, and make sure to explain the communist ties of the designated hitting rule; it's what Grandpa would want.