Sandlot Society - A Mile and Back

Tokyo seemed like a mile from here, but I remember the hazy morning at the end of March, when I woke up at 5:10AM and probably had only half slept that night to prepare myself for the first game of the year. It was the Yankees, who are of course my team, but in a unique way it felt like in that game everyone was watching, and everyone was pulling for someone, and maybe for an instance, objective at the Yankees situation, their early season struggles, maybe a glimmer of sympathy for a glimmer of a second, before the firestorm came. The calm in the morning wind, as the Tornado brew.

Months later, I finished off the season seeing Ruben Sierra take the ball from Felix Heredia to give it to Tanyon Sturtze, I saw Brad Lidge closing an Astros wild card game, I saw the Giants winning a meaningless game against the Dodgers, with much of the right field stands cleared out by a younger rich man who didn’t recognize that Bonds would defy the average yet again.

I saw John Kerry push and float a ball thrown like a knuckler, diving like a sinker, at the speed of a little leaguer into the dirt and between the legs of a veteran of war, but certainly not baseball. This was the year, the first true year of my baseball fandom, and I can say it now, proud and clear, I’m not just a fan of the Yankees, not just a fan of the history or the idea, I’m a fan of the game, and there’s a part of me securely bonded with it now, so that every time I play Ray Charles rendition of "America, The Beautiful" in my head, its no longer a brief, day dreamed cameo of "the Sandlot", but a gifted part of my conscious -- a fledgling concept building a foundation to stay, and for that I’m proud.

This was the summer of Milton Bradley -- or Frankie Francisco and the inspired Rangers, the inspired Indians, and the heat of a philosophical Cold War between Bill James/Billy Beane, and Tony LaRussa and Steinbrenner’s crew. Through it all though, I had never so sorely missed the crack of the bat as I had when the third out was recorded in inning 9, or 10, or further, but sometime before I slipped into unconsciousness, the night would end, the rally would fade, Angell’s dream and mine would be subsided for another day.

For all October’s drama, and perhaps one of the few things that I truly divulge my heart to, October makes Baseball an undeniably adult game. From March to September men young and old are paid and overpaid for playing a game I wouldn’t stop playing if I didn’t have to, and for October they do it nearly for free, but in a sense the seriousness of the situation brings more anger. Baseball doesn’t die in October, it simply begins to wither for the snow, and as each day passes and each game goes by, and each team, win or lose, moves closer to their finish, I’ll remember each individual quirky moment, the corky one-liners of my local announcing team, the subtle but slender cut in a Mariano fastball, or the drive to Alex’s power lifting a low curveball the opposite way.

I’ve come back to the Sports Fans, not because I love the people or the atmosphere. It’s because I love the game. I had spent this summer playing softball, and sandlot baseball, grounding out dipping knucklers and turning on floating curveballs, making backhanded stops, wishing there was a crowd, devising what I’d give up to be in a big league game. This fall will bring the flag football spell, and I’ll dash around uncoordinated opponents, swat hands away from my waist, slide in and out of coverage, and pretend, for a very slight instant, that in the pitch of gravity, in that divine second of momentum, there is no one greater or more involved in life than me.

With that analysis, my column here at TSF, and my participation on the forums, will be more of a general divulgence -- a practice in lateral thinking. I want to be this for a career. I want to be a lifer. This is my dream. I want to make you apart of it, and learn along the way, and talk sports, and be a fan.

Although baseball is my true passion, sports in general is a close and conclusive second. I think it’s important now to remember these moments, when I first begin to grow as a writer, and make the most of everything around me. I want to be able to describe a subtle but determined line drive to short. I want to be able to speak the language of a sportsman.

I want to remember this season, and 50 more, in vivid detail. I want to remember it in a beautiful way. I want to remember it exactly how it is.




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