During the baseball unit of my elementary school’s PE class, I perfected the art of casually returning to the back of the line, using my classmates as a barrier between me and my turn at bat. When it was time to switch to playing outfield, I always chose a spot so far away from any of the bases that a passerby wouldn’t have even known I was part of the game.
The few times my methods of avoidance didn’t work led to such disastrous results that I only redoubled my efforts the next time. In second grade, Coach Orcutt accused me of not even looking at the ball as I swung wildly in its general direction and missed. He may have been right, but I was of the opinion that hitting the ball would only prolong the embarrassment of having my lack of athletic ability put on display.
The panic of my younger years slowly wore off into apathy as I got older. As a high schooler in the bay area, it wasn’t long before I was invited to attend a Giants game. It took the mention of garlic fries to convince me that trekking out to San Francisco to watch sports on a weekend would be worth the trouble. When the fries were finished and I learned that there were still at least two and a half hours left in the game, I had to question why baseball was known as the greatest of all American pastimes. Clearly, it was boring.
Recently though, I’ve had cause to give the sport another chance. It started with the release of 42, a film detailing baseball player Jackie Robinson’s experience as the first African American to break the sport’s color barrier. I’d expected that I would like the movie based solely on Robinson’s story, but my enjoyment of the film came down to more than just admiration for the Dodgers player; the game looked fun. Or rather, being a spectator of the game did. As I watched, I found myself pining for the 1950’s, a time when women stood in the stands wearing dresses and pearls next to kids in striped shirts while they ate peanuts and hung onto every word of the announcer’s exciting play by plays. I left the theater a little disappointed to think that I’d been cheated out of the authentic baseball experience.
Then last Monday, friends came into town for a visit and going to a baseball game together was on the agenda. After work, I braved the hideous Los Angeles traffic and arrived at Dodger Stadium just as the crowd was singing “The Star Spangled Banner.” I sat with my husband and friends, enjoying a Super Dog and a bag of kettle corn, and for the first time, I was on the edge of understanding the appeal of baseball. While the world seems to become progressively more chaotic, the game has changed little. Not even the addition of a kiss cam or the spurts of music filling the gaps between plays can detract from the feeling of nostalgia that settles over the stadium. In a time when everything is rushed and quicker is always better, the slowness of the sport is a welcome reprieve and reminiscent of a bygone era.
Maybe it simply took my life becoming more hectic for me to appreciate the patience of a well-played game, but whatever the reason, I savored those three hours spent in the stands, watching the players on the crisp, green field. At the very least, the lyrics of that old baseball song hold new meaning for me now, particularly the part about buying some peanuts and Cracker Jack. It’s true that if you do that, you really won’t care if you never get back.
