Rituals and Memories
Every year for the last three or four, I've flown to Phoenix to meet my parents for Spring Training Baseball and a nice preview of what the warm weather will be like in Washington once the seasons shape up. It's become part of a ritual for me, the celebration of the Lent of Baseball. Though perhaps Advent might be more apt, the length of Spring Training is more akin to Lent, not to mention the suffering that we take part in as the rosters thin, and we discover dormant injuries and watch the human drama of the new squad.
We sit in the sunshine at Surprise or Peoria or Papago Park, the green of the outfield soothing the remaining rawness of winter from our eyes, the red rocks of the American West reminding us of the great frontiers that this nation has. Baseball is a collection of rituals and traditions. To say otherwise is to ignore the nuance that makes the game great.
Players have their rituals; Nomar Garciaparra has a whole at-bat ritual that I'm told takes up to 45 minutes to complete if he accidentally steps out of the batter's box. Sure, some of that is superstition, but it also brings a familiarity and consistency to the moment, a guide for focusing one's self prior to action. Outfielders will sweep the short grass with their feet and reposition before the next pitch. Pitchers will walk around the mound, grab the rosin bag, and touch their cap twice.
Managers have theirs, too, much like it seems that Frank Robinson has this ritual whereby he removes the pitcher at exactly the wrong moment, just after he's given up the grand slam, or in the middle of the at-bat when the hurler has pitched himself back to 2-2 against the opposing team's slugger.
But I think fans have the best rituals. Many of us cart out notebooks with our own scribblings, a scoresheet and a pencil sharpened down to its last inch to track the game's progress for our edification. We come, game after game, through the same gate, marching up the many stairs and ramps to our seats, sitting with the same family of people year in and year out, cheering for the same team, despite changes in roster and position. We read the box scores each morning. We live and die by our team's efforts.
So I come to the grand western frontier, amongst the red rocks and saguaros as part of my preparation rituals for this game. I learn how to watch and score again. I learn how to spot a rookie who might just have what it takes. I listen to the soundtrack from the Natural as we drive the desert highway south from Black Canyon City into Phoenix, letting Randy Newman's horns and violins sing out and exult in the triumph of fictional Roy Hobbs. The open fifths are reminiscent of Copland and the grand tradition of Cowboy Music.
I read the work of Kinsella and others, rejoicing in the rich and mysterious tradition of this game that is the same from its invention over a hundred years past. Baseball does mark the time, despite this nation of steamrollers and its even passing army of progress. The game that was my grandfather's at Crosly field in Cincinnati in the damp heat of the summer, that is my father's and his memories of the Big Red Machine, and became mine with the late 1980s Oakland Athletics will be my children's game, and their children's game, as well.
So I begin my ritual with a long flight and some introspection. Music, memories of Dave Parker, Kirby Puckett, Mark McGwire, Ron Hassey, Tom Candiotti. Charley and Sandy who sat behind us at the Coliseum then Adam and Lynne, Rob and Mr. Terio, our friends at RFK. The lawyer who got mustard on his tie (I was 12, Erik was 11, we gave 'em hell. It was great.) Seats Bob Uecker would've turned down, but we loved (Opening Day, 1988, Oakland Coliseum) and Cold nights in Oakland in September. Walking down out the portal into the great view at Camden Yards my first year in DC, then snow there in 2003 on opening day and the coldest I've ever been at a baseball game. Sunburned in Kansas City with my cousin Paul at Kauffman Stadium. Jacobs Field with Decesare and the gang (despite a rain delay, and then the sandwiches aftewards). Wrigley with Dan Daily, John LaRaia and Imran (I still have no recollection how we made it back that night. Really.) and games at the old horrible Cinergy Field in Cincinnati.
Baseball is a game of memories and rituals. Tomorrow my Dad and I will sit in the stands somewhere, score the game, and remember Bill King on the AM radio so many summers ago. We'll revive our love for the game with those who make it their living.
Listening to: The Whammer Strikes Out from the album “Natural” by The Natural Soundtrack - Randy Newman
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Comments:
Not to mention the stunning Lack of Baseball that one week you came to LA last year. No Majors, no single-A no nothin', and this in the middle of the season! IIRC, the nearest baseball being played was Sacramento. We still gotta get to a Dodgers game the two of us.
I'm envious of your trip -- have a hot dog and peanuts for me! :)
Posted by Celsius1414 on March 8, 2006 — 11:48 PM
Nice piece Tom.
While I'm not totally familiar with the entire score from the Natural, I don't think there's a baseball fan(atic) that doesn't have that one "theme" resonating in their head from time to time.
Given what I know if Newman's score, your comparison to Copland is dead on. While reading, I can hear Coplands work in my head… Piercing French horns and trombones ringing out open-fifths in pieces like Fanfare For The Common Man, Appalachian Spring, and the Hoedown movement of Rodeo. You've allowed me to *experience* the goose bumps, if only in my mind.
*pops a Copland CD in*
Posted by JR on March 9, 2006 — 10:31 AM