The happy place that is baseball

I was there, last night

Notice the ball glove hanging off the arm of the boy in the above photo? That might help you understand the reverence my family held and holds for baseball.

This family photo — taken in my grandparents’ yard — interrupted one of our marathon games of Catch. The middle brother and I dropped our gloves long enough to pose, but you couldn’t have torn the glove off my older brother’s hand. He slept with it and oiled it until it weighed a ton, and when he wasn’t playing baseball, he was thinking and/or talking about it. If he wasn’t on the ball field, he was in the side yard of our crappy rental organizing Wiffle ball tournaments. I once memorized the lineup of the St. Louis Cardinals (go, Cards!) to impress him. (It didn’t work.)

In my family, it went Jesus, and then baseball, but in the summer, baseball was moved a little higher. Even now, though I haven’t played a game in decades, I still carry a glove and hardball in my car just in case someone asks me to join a pick-up game (as if).

I was on the phone with my Aunt Julie from the local ball field last night, and she asked if I knew how many hours I’ve spent at a ball field in my nearly 64 years.

Let’s see: We had a small field behind one of our rentals that was just big enough for an infield. My brothers taught me to hold a bat when I was 4. When I showed some fear about the ball, they took me out back and threw balls at me until I wasn’t afraid any more.

I was calling my aunt from my grandson’s baseball practice. I have already spent hours watching him play baseball since he started with Tee-ball — four years ago? Five? Before that, I watched my son play ball. Before that, I played baseball and softball (the latter for Handy Dandy Liquor, and boy did I feel wicked posing inside that store for our end-of-the-season team portrait). Before that, I spent hot summer evenings watching my brothers play, scrounging change to buy what we called “suicides,” which was every soda flavor mixed in one cup.

(I do not know why we called them that.)

I am not counting the professional games I’ve watched, but if we were adding up hours spent on or near a diamond, I think I could easily hit eleventy-million.

I am thrilled that my grandson plays baseball. He loves the game and he tells me that one day he will play for the Boston Red Sox. I sit in the stands and keep my mouth shut, though I have all kinds of helpful tips to share. I wait until he asks. He rarely asks.

And I do not tell him that his playing for the Cardinals would be awesome-r. Right now, I’m just enjoying the cool spring evenings at practice, watching him whip that ball to first base. Will he play for the Sox one day? Who cares? His first game is tomorrow (at 8 a.m.; I live an hour away and of course I’ll be there).

Go, Reds. Go, Jon-Jon.