MLB Suggestions

Opening Day is almost upon us, which means my yearly opining about baseball. However, instead of rambling on nostalgically about how much I love the game, I'm going to complain about it for once. I love baseball for many reasons, but I do have several gripes with the MLB that I'd like to enumerate. I know many of these things are not going to happen anytime soon, if at all, but if I was given free reign over baseball for a year, these are the things I would see done.


Salary Cap
The biggest problem I have with the major leagues is the income disparity between the small-market clubs and the big. You can preach free-market capitalism at me all you want, but the truth is that the MLB is a monopoly, and one protected as such through congressional legislation. I don't want to change that, but I do think that it is vital to bring about a bit of equity in the system. Baseball needs a salary cap, it's as simple as that. It would level the playing field, create some parity in the league and allow teams to keep their stars instead of being forced to trade them off for prospects once they are approaching free agency. It gets tiring seeing the best young players traded off to New York, Boston, Chicago, L.A., and yes... even to a lesser extent my Tigers year after year.
I know this would be a hard sell for the players association and for the high payroll teams, but it is in baseball's best interest to see this happen. Just taking look at the 2009 team payrolls, shows a stark contrast between the teams who can spend and those who can't. First of all, the Yankees have a payroll of almost 70 million more than the next highest team (the Mets) and over five times that of the Florida Marlins. Yet, the payroll figures only give a snapshot view of the situation. Some of these clubs are keeping unsustainable payrolls in order to compete now, while others have very low ones because their teams are so young.

MLB Blackout Areas

What we really need to be looking at is regional populations or market sizes. Baseball Almanac has a nice article that lists the market sizes. There are some caveats to the data, however. The first is that it is a bit outdated, but population figures haven't changed enough to negate it's usefulness. Additionally, a city like New York, which has nine major sports teams (not counting MLS) to divide its fans among, probably won't have as high a percentage of its market viewing as a city like New Orleans (with only two teams) would. Yet, I don't believe it is realistic to divide the market by nine, since it is not as if residents of a city watch or attend only a finite number of games, and thus, the more teams available watch, the higher the total viewership will be, in general. I don't think anyone can argue with that. Besides, the baseball season is for the most part during the summer and without a major sports rival for much of the season. However, it is vital to split the markets of those cities with two teams in half. Still, the Yankees and Mets have a market size of over 10 million compared to the 1.6 million in Milwaukee. That is a massive gap to bridge and one that I only see two solutions to. The first is a salary cap, the second... add five or six professional teams to the New York market, and a few to L.A. and Chicago, too. Hell, we might as well give Philly, Detroit and Boston another team while we're at it. Okay, so that proposal is totally unreasonable for a variety of reasons that I won't get into. So, salary cap it is.

Furthermore, the salary cap should be coupled with some sort of revenue sharing deal (which the MLB already has) and a payroll floor, to prevent teams from just constantly tanking like the Florida Marlins have been apt to do over the years. Not only should this system allow small market teams to better compete and keep their players, it should create a more competitive league as a whole. Drafting, the farm system and roster management suddenly become a lot more important, especially for big market teams which can no longer just throw money at their problems.

Expansion
With some money freed up, baseball may even be able to expand. This desire is obviously biased, because I simply like seeing new teams spring up, but I think it would work well. While probably not realistic in the current economic climate, I think that a more fiscally responsible MLB could definitely expand to a few more cities. Going back to the list of biggest markets in the US and Canada for a moment... I think that bringing baseball back to Montreal would be a great idea. Charlotte, San Antonio or Portland might also make nice homes for new teams, or just place another team in New York. It would cut into the TV areas and the revenue of the other teams, but I think ultimately revenue would increase for the MLB as a whole. But, my primary motive is getting the leagues back to an equal number of teams. Having 14 teams in the AL and 16 in the NL always felt so unbalanced to me. Move Milwaukee back to the AL or add two AL teams, either way it would work. The divisions could be reworked into four of four teams or have two of five and one of six.


Steroids
The steroid issue may have diminished, but baseball is definitely not in the clear yet. It is painfully obvious that the MLB turned a blind eye to the use of steroids throughout the 90s. In doing so, they not only harmed the integrity of the game, but allowed the specter of the Faustian bargain of steroids to descend upon countless young baseball players. Even with the knowledge of the harm they can cause, steroids are a huge lure to players who dream of making the big leagues. While I like to think I would not give in if I were in that position, I cannot blame those who have. The MLB needs to simply come out and admit their mistake, acknowledge that the game was compromised and that there are fraudulent records on the books. While, I don't believe that the records achieved during the era should be erased, simply because it gives players an incentive not to come clean, the major leagues need to admit to their mistake. It was the Steroids Era, the stats are out of whack, they cannot be fixed now. We will never know who used steroids or who didn't, because there is no way that everyone will com clean, but there will always be a cloud hanging over the period. All that baseball can do now is admit their mistake, implement as stringent as steroid policy as possible and move on.


Hall of Fame
On a related note, I don't believe that known or suspected steroid users should be banned from the Hall of Fame. Again, I think this policy only serves as an incentive not to admit to using steroids. Bonds, McGwire, Sosa... put them all in the Hall. Put it on the plaque that they cheated, or that they achieved fame under suspicious circumstances, I don't care, and I don't like any of them, but they deserve to be there. Just like Joe Jackson and Pete Rose do. Especially in the case of Jackson, who was given a lifetime ban, and is now dead. Shouldn't the ban be over? And keep Rose away from baseball, that's fine, but both of them deserve to be there for being some of the greatest baseball players ever. You don't have to lie or exalt any of these guys, hell... put up an exhibit about cheating and gambling on baseball if you want, just let them in. If a horrible person like Ty Cobb gets to be there, anyone who was good enough at playing should be, too.


All-Star Game
I have several problems with the All-Star Game in its current format. The first and more egregious is that the winning league gets home field advantage in the World Series. It is beyond dumb that what amounts to an exhibition game has any effect upon the MLB championship and this has to be changed. Secondly, fan voting needs to be done away with. The average fan doesn't know enough about baseball to know who actually deserves to be in the game and most fans are too partisan to vote for anyone but their own team's players. The rosters should be decided upon by the players or managers. It is unfair to use all-star game appearance as a criteria to argue a player's merit if it is simply a popularity contest. Lastly, the rule that each team must have a representative in the game should be abolished. Once again, the only criteria that should decide who is on the all-star team is how well their season has been thus far.


Designated Hitter
Finally, I would at the very least consider implementing a DH in the National League. My only reluctance in doing so is historical and because I think it is rather quaint to have such a huge rule difference between the two leagues. Also, I know how biased I am about this rule having grown up a fan of an American League team. Nonetheless, I don't buy into any of the arguments in opposition to the DH other than those I have already listed. The additional strategy that it provides is negligible and the necessity of pinch hitting for a pitcher at the end of the game, in my mind, is an argument in favor of the DH and not against it. Furthermore, pitcher is an extremely specialized position and the most grueling in the sport, why force them to do something that they are almost universally poor at? Kickers don't catch passes, goalies rarely shoot on net, pitchers don't need to hit. In the end, what does inserting an extremely weak batter at the bottom of every lineup do to make the game better? Nothing, that I can see.


I have little hope of most of these things coming to pass anytime soon, but that's alright. For the most part I have just been musing and the lack of reform, while frustrating at times, pales in comparison to the joy I get from watching the game. Baseball has never been my favorite sport, but it is the one that I have always felt my identity as a Detroiter has been most tied to. Perhaps it is its position as the national pastime, perhaps the fact that it is so old, or maybe its the fact that I equate it with summer and freedom and joy, but being a Tigers fan was always about more than just the game. I always felt that you were born with a team and you would die with that team. Winning or losing, I was content with the sport, because it was my heritage as a Michigander. I may enjoy watching other teams, may even someday adopt another team as a secondary rooting interesting, but the Old English D will forever be baseball to me.

A Tiger Graveyard

I don't remember the last time I was in Tiger Stadium, but considering the last game there was played in the summer of '99, I couldn't have been older than eleven. But, I don't know if I saw a game there that season, or even the one before that. Nor do I remember how many times I went there as a child, though it was certainly more than a dozen. None of those times really differentiate themselves from one another, not for a kid that young. I remember third baselines, green grass and white uniforms, but nothing all that concrete. Not wins and losses or opposing teams. The one memory which truly stands out is of the stadium's low-ceilinged tunnels that seemed to me then like some sort of primeval caves.


As a kid the ballpark itself was the important part, not the game itself. Sure, I enjoyed watching baseball, but my attention span wasn't long enough to really appreciate the game. But the hot dog vendors, the cheering masses, the wave, the peanuts, and my dad sitting next to me are what still stick out in my mind.

I know my dad was at the last game in Tiger Stadium, on September 27, 1999. I don't know for sure if I saw the game on television, but it seems like I did. I feel as if I watched Robert Fick hit that grand slam which would be the last hit the Stadium would ever see. But it could just be a pseudo-memory or a hope.

At the tail end of summer, Caleb, Stef and I headed into the city for Michigan and Trumbull and parked in a gravel lot right next to the stadium. I hadn't been there in years, but I still remembered the feeling of elation as the claustrophobic tunnel opened up to get a view of a bright green field and thousands upon thousands of people. This time was different, though it brought back all the same memories. Tiger Stadium was deserted as we approached the fence, the infield covered in piles of rubble ten feet high. The only part of the stadium left standing were the walls behind home plate, rising high above the refuse, gutted. It looked as if an earthquake had hit it, or a bomb. We slipped under the fence and wandered between the piles of debris towards the towering structures above. The field was covered with concrete, steel, dust and strewn among the debris were hundreds of broken seats... everywhere bright spots of blue and orange among the grey and rust-hued remains. Heading away from the rubble, the outfield was clear, clean... looking more like the field of a park than what once was an immaculately kept lawn.

Standing out there was an awe-inspiring moment, thinking about all the people who had filled the Stadium throughout the century, since before my grandparents were born. All the games it had seen, the joys, the sorrows, and simply the life that had happened.

Despite the utter destruction around me and the sadness that of what was left behind, the joy of the experience was unmistakable. I was at Tiger Stadium once more and on the field for the first time in my life. My only regret is that I hadn't brought a baseball and a bat or maybe a glove, so the field could experience baseball one last time. I'm not usually one to personify or believe in spirits or ghosts, but there is part of me that thinks it would have made a difference. Maybe some of that concrete had soaked up the experiences of the century or they had seeped into the soil I was standing upon, the ground that had been known as Bennet Park, Navin Field, Briggs Field and finally Tiger Stadium. At least, I would like to think so, because there is not much left otherwise.

Tiger Stadium

I wrote a post a long time ago about the situation of Tiger Stadium. I'm not sure that my opinion is the same as it was then, but I know that I would like to see something there. A park would be nice, or just some indication that baseball was played there for decades.

The point of writing this is mostly to call out the Detroit Free Press for misquoting someone, which led to me insulting him. I know your paper is mostly dying because of the internet, but it's this sort of ineptitude that has poisoned your name to so many people in the first place.

We here at BSD would just like to apologize for spreading the miss quote, because we know the Free Press won't.

I Hate Ohio

Look, I make it no secret how much I hate Ohio and everything related to even distantly to the state. I'm not sorry if this offends anyone, but they're obviously some sort of Ohioan or Ohio sympathizer and don't care what they think. I understand that this excludes about 11 million people from liking the blog, but I don't care about that either. Besides, I still have Paul in Cincinnati reading. So without further ado... Schadenfreude...

The Cleveland Indians lost to the Red Sox in game seven of the ALCS last night 11-2 after getting blown out the game before 12-2. I'm not sure how that even happens, but I can't help be feel wonderful about it.

Sure, I'm bitter because the Tigers didn't make the playoffs, but fuck it all. The Indians lost!

Look how depressed they look, isn't it wonderful?

Disclaimer: Image taken from The Boston Globe.

Utopia

While watching Star Trek, I was always led to believe that The Federation was some sort of utopia. Their ships seem to be built for science and exploration just as much as they are for battle, and there is economic cooperation between the member worlds. Half the time they are off to stop some epidemic or to solve some dispute, or getting caught in some sort of alternate time period, but there really isn't that much warfare (honestly to my annoyance). Humans have stopped fighting one another, disease has been pretty much eradicated, starvation solved, and Earth seems to be a peaceful and as Q put it, "boring" place. I always questioned what the government was, and the economic system and about the freedoms of the place, but they seem to make it a pretty damn nice place to live.

That all changed when I watched the Deep Space Nine episode "If Wishes Were Horses". How the hell am I supposed to believe this utopia if humans have stopped playing baseball? That's just ludicrous.

Michigan and Trumbull

I have no idea when the first time I saw Tiger Stadium was, or what transpired at any games that I attended there, but what I do remember I feel is far more important. I’m not sure if I would have turned out any differently had I never visited the stadium, but I cannot imagine a childhood without lazy summer days spent in a ballpark. I remember those long low tunnels and the great expanses of green everywhere. I remember the sea gulls and the hot dog vendors and watching batting practice. I can still remember sitting in those plastic chairs eating peanuts with my dad and even if I wasn’t paying complete attention to the game, I was learning to love it, I was soaking in the atmosphere.

I’m not even sure what more I can express about baseball or childhood or the Detroit Tigers that I have yet to in this space. It meant everything to a kid from Dearborn, to a Detroiter at heart whose blood was full of motor oil, to sit in that stadium and be part of something that stretched back to times that were written in the black and white of newsprint. Wins or losses never mattered back then, but I still remember those seats along the third base line with the sun glaring down at me.

There has been a ballpark on the corner of Michigan and Trumbull since 1912, but it seems that that might soon be ending. The Detroit City Council approved plans to demolition the stadium, but then voted against transferring ownership to the demolition company… I don’t know what they’re doing, whether it is just politics or a genuine interest in preserving at least some of the old stadium. I just feel numb to it all now.

I know I’m not an impartial observer in this by any means. A history major that happens to love baseball is against tearing down Tiger Stadium? I’m sure that’s a shock to everyone, but I can’t help but feel with my heart on this issue. I understand the arguments for demolition, but I don’t want to hear them anymore. To me, that building is the heart and soul of the city, and now it is deteriorating like everything else. The Free Press ran an article the other day about how people living near Tiger Stadium are sick of it sitting there, and how it has become an “eye sore”. The entire article pained me to the core. One resident claimed that no one wants to live near a baseball stadium. Maybe you should have thought of that before you moved across the street from one that has been standing for almost a century! And honestly... what kind of person wouldn't want to live near a ballpark? There were some good quotes in the article, too, but far too many of them were horrible. Tiger Stadium deserves better than that. It is a landmark and a place that has meant so much to so many, and these people are just willing to toss it aside?

At lest there are some who are working to keep the stadium, but it seems like it is too little. Ernie Harwell said it perfectly in the Free Press.

“Tiger Stadium has meant a lot to generations,” Harwell said. “If we can’t (save part of it), we’ll have to keep Tiger Stadium in our memory, our mind and our heart, and cherish it that way.”

Somehow Detroit just won’t feel right without that old ballpark sitting at Michigan and Trumbull. I just hope they find some way to honor it there.

No-Hitter

No-hitter!

Verlander just threw a friggin' no-hitter!

It was the first by a Tiger since 1984 when Jack Morris pitched one.

...and I missed it. Hopefully FSN will have the recap on tonight and I can watch the game. I've never actually seen one.

For those of you who don't know a no-hitter is when a pitcher... well, doesn't allow any hits. How 'bout that?

The Tigers beats the Breweres 4-0.

Some links from various news organizations follow:

Yahoo Sports
ESPN.com
The Detroit Free Press
The Detroit News

Wolverines Upset Commodores

Victory!

The Michigan Wolverines baseball team advanced to the super regionals of the NCAA Tournament tonight by defeating the #1 ranked Vanderbilt Commodores.

Pinch hitter Alan Oaks hit a home run in the top of the tenth to give the Wolverines a 4-3 victory.

Michigan was 2-1 against Vanderbilt this weekend, a stunning upset in a sport that is traditionally dominated by southern schools. Michigan got little respect upon entering the tournament, but pulled off a huge victory.

Here are some links:

Some pictures from the Michigan Daily.

Short article on MGoBlog.



Hail to the Victors!

Tales from the Internets, volume 2

Well, it's that time again... a time to post crazy links, that is. Once again, I got a lot of these from various sources, and I'll try to give credit where credit is due, but I forget a lot of the time where this stuff came from.

One side comment... I understand that it's some sort of marketing ploy to repeat the name of the company/product ad nauseam during a commercial, but it's annoying as fuck. Do I need to hear the word [company name removed to prevent advertising] ten times in three sentences? No, no I don't. I think I need to up my dose or television or something. I'm actually starting to get un-brainwashed by commercialism.

Anyway, on to the links. From the people at Progressive Boink, a hilarious database of Hanna-Barbara cartoon characters. Definitely worth it if you ever watched any of them as a kid (or an adult, I guess). Speaking of which, why the hell did I watch all my parents' cartoons as a kid? Was I the only one?

While still on the subject of cartoons, here's a nice picture of a "realistic" Mario World. It's quite disturbing, really. I have no clue where Caleb found this, either.

This is pretty cool. It gives a new meaning to the idea of bit actors... Ha ha, get it... I really need to stop using these awful puns.

A nice article on Little Leaguers from The Onion. Hey, can you really blame the kid?

For those of you who live around the Detroit area and watch baseball at all, I'm sure you know about Mario Impemba and Rod Allen. While, I definitely don't think they're great broadcasters by any stretch of the imagination, and they certainly aren't fit to shine Ernie Harwell's shoes, at least they have some personality. Proof in point is this little Youtube clip. Someone needs to teach the Japanese about the joys of a baseball brawl. I got this link from Bill Simmons' column, which I highly recommend to any sports fans out there.

Keeping with the sports pattern, here's a list of some of the worst injuries ever. Some of this stuff is just nasty, but it's like a train wreck.

Cylon. I'd be nervous, too... and I'm not sure what the woman is so pissed off about. Battlestar Galactica is awesome.

The Good Book... as told by Denmark. If they had this when I was a kid, I might actually be a Christian right now. I think they should start doing full length movies in Lego. That'd be awesome.

Lastly, a couple of Will Ferrell videos that are must sees: The Landlord, A Hotdog and Space: The Infinite Frontier. "Hey!"

Baseball

Why do you have to love baseball? Because you just can’t help it! Because you love summer. Because it’s not a sport but it’s life, it’s a pulse, and it’s time. Because baseball can be everything. Baseball is real, and it’s real as you or me.


What is in baseball is what’s in all of use. Something that binds us, connects us, grounds us. Baseball is strong smells and textures and deep deep truths. The feel of the ball; the ridge of each stitch, the raw weave of the pants, and the childishness of the caps. Baseball isn’t a sport, it’s a game. Those aren’t athletes on the grass, they’re real people, the way it used to be. Baseball’s a game made to be played by drunks and overweight old men, and young kids. As easy as the dust gets caught in your nostrils, or the way the setting sun just stops when those painfully red rays hit the mound and you can see the smoky spirit of the game moving in the energy about everyone’s feet, baseball gets caught in your veins. It’s not sport, it’s a game, and it’s life.


What happened to the good old days, when porn was smut and liquor was good for you? Back when baseball was American pie and the mitts were big and bulky and always broken in? What happened to the afternoons of fathers and brothers? What happened to the days when kids looked up too drunks for all the right reasons? What happened to the days of Terrance Mann? You know? You know.

Baseball used to be played by gods, not titans. Real men, who were true Adonis’, with fat solid figures that’d dank deep of life. Today, you look across the polished diamonds, through jumbo eyes, and see Frankensteins. And, it’s not these monsters, these inhuman muscles and drug fueled creatures that are baseball. No, it’s the real guys, the guys like you and me. That’s what made baseball great, that’s what made it an American game, because those men that were out on the field weren’t much different from the two of us. So take back your Hercules’ and Goliaths, and give me those ghosts of Christmas present and young John the Baptists. Baseball was played by someone like your father, or your uncle, or your neighbor; someone who’d been in the same towns and parks and mini-marts and watched the same games as you. And, that’s what made them great; that’s what made them gods, and the game a game of legends. When those men stepped out onto the field, when they crossed the wild green grasses and kicked at the dry dirts there was an energy in the air like that from the dawn of time, and, pulled up from sleep baseball lived. Those men, those boys, those true articles would hit and run and throw and in there legs and arms and honest frames a game greater than good and evil was played by people more honest to life then any angel or demon. They played a real game: baseball.


I’m not a sports-man, but I am a man, and I can’t help but love baseball. Sometimes I’ll watch the games on tv, and if someone’s offering I’ll go to stadium with a fun group of people for a nice afternoon, but I can’t tear myself away from what used to be. Baseball is meant to be an honest game, that’s why we play it in summer, and why it has to be done outside, and even why the batting cages always hurt so damn much in the palm of my hands. I can’t honestly watch baseball without thinking about who should really be playing it; without thinking about all the old men who somebody should be looking up to, and about all the young guys who should be on the road, and all the dead guys that made so many opportunities possible for those creatures that get paid to play a sport and not a game.

Sometimes, in summer, when the sun is setting very late and night, and everyone winding down, I wish I could hear someone shouting in the orange light from the sun, and the kicked up dust. Before the streetlights turn on and everyone knows its night time and the fireflies come out, I like to listen for that honest sound of kids shouting and leather and wood and red string, because I swear to god I can hear everyone of those. And it makes me sad to think about it even now, because I know baseball is an honest game to be played at honest times by some honest people.


Like I said, I’m not a sports-man, and I’m not a Christian, but if you’ll look past both those you’ll see I can be honest too. And, if you remember, I mentioned young John the Baptist, which is another thing I can’t help but think about when I think of those kids playing baseball. I don’t know, something about a young kid, stuck in the wild, trying to prepare the word for what God’s told him will change everything, and being scared as hell of it just reminds me of childhood. And, I’ll tell you, though I’m not a sports-man, and I can’t see god, I’ll keep my eye on the ball, because I truly believe an honest game just might be able to save all of us.

-Caleb, right fielder. Deep, deep, right fielder.

Box Score

“I’m reading the box score, Scully. You’d like it; it’s like the Pythagorean Theorem for jocks. It distills all the chaos and action of any game in the history of all baseball games into one tiny, perfect rectangular sequence of numbers. I can look at this box, and I can recreate exactly what happened on some sunny, summer day back in 1947. It’s like the numbers talk to me, they comfort me, they tell me even though lots of things can change some things do remain the same.” –Fox Mulder

One day, Mulder reminded me of something my dad once told me, something about how I should love baseball because of how much I enjoyed statistics. My seven year old self never really understood that, because things like wins and losses, points and touchdowns, goals and assists were so much easier to understand than ERAs, batting averages, WHIPs, or slugging percentages. But, not understanding all of that stuff never stopped me from loving the game, and it never stopped me from playing second base, or debating All-Star team rosters with my grandpa on lazy weekday afternoons. And when I grew, and my knowledge of math increased (though I will never admit again that math has ever helped me better understand sports), I began to get what my dad had been trying to tell me all those years before.

Baseball is the game of statistics, the game of numbers. I learned what all those funny acronyms and abbreviations stood for, and what they meant. I learned all the little intricacies of the game, and I fell in love with it all over again. It wasn’t just whacking a ball with a stick and running bases or catching and throwing, it was strategy and numbers that stretched back into the foggy reaches of time, numbers that meant something, that could restore something. I might never be able to recreate a summer day in Boston in 1920, but I can damn well know what happened at Fenway that day. So, I think back and wonder what it was like to watch Hank Aaron, Ted Williams, Babe Ruth or Mordecai “Three Fingers” Brown, and I dig up all those charts filled with numbers and abbreviations and marvel at the order and simplicity of it all.

Once at a game at Comerica Park a blonde in the row in front of mine caught my eye. She had her hair back in a pony tale and a baseball cap on her head, and to my amazement she was filling out a score card as she watched the game from the bleachers. She was recording for posterity that day in time. It was quite possibly the most attractive thing I had ever seen in my life. Just watching her slender fingers marking outs with a pencil and seeing her rapt attention at every movement of the game was intoxicating. I understand if that makes me seem crazy to most of you, but I’m sure that someone out there understands. I know Mulder would, at least.

Ballparks themselves are intoxicating… the rumble of the crowd, the call of the vendors, the warm smell of hotdogs and the freshness of the air, the warm sun shining and the inviting sky spreading out in every direction. There is just something about them that is different from all those places called Arenas, Bowls, Domes and Coliseums. They are parks, they are fields… they are expansive and open. I feel sorry for those cities that don’t have a true ballpark, but are forced to share a facility with some other sport. It just isn’t the same. I’m lucky enough to have two of them, though one is a haunted shadow of its former self.

It has been a long time since I was last in Tiger Stadium, but I’ve went past it many times since then and I know it’s still sitting there at Michigan and Trumbell, just waiting. No matter how long it has been, though, I know I’ll remember those long, claustrophobically low tunnels that must still be there, and the field where so many of my heroes and my father’s heroes roamed for summers stretching back decades. I still know those steep bleachers that made you feel as if you were right on top of the field and I can hear the seagulls crying out in my mind. I can still remember sitting along the third baseline, cracking shells and popping peanuts into my mouth, the mitt on my left hand just itching for a foul ball, and my dad next to me keeping track of the game on a scorecard.

Comerica Park is newer, more open, and perhaps the grass is greener now, but I know it will never replace Tiger Stadium. No park can ever replace that old warrior in my heart. But, CoPa is a good park, and the skyline from it makes me think about how much I love the city, despite everything. It’s funny how those surroundings gave me so much courage, how thousands of people around me brought me comfort. It’s odd that friends chattering away and the thrill of a potential comeback victory made me do something that I probably would never have done otherwise. So, I talked to the blonde girl with the scorecard and the Tiger’s hat. I told her that she was beautiful, and she smiled at me. I talked to her, and my heart thumped at her smile and the look in her blue eyes. I felt alive… and it didn’t matter what she said, how she responded, that was never the point. It was only the movement of her lips as she formed the words, not what she spoke, that mattered, the gentle curve of her jaw line and the happiness that I knew my words brought her. So, we talked about the game and ourselves, and it was unbelievable. We talked about filling out scorecards, four seam fastballs and our lives. And it didn’t matter that she had a boyfriend, that I never got her phone number, or that she lived in Cincinnati, because I was happy. Nothing but that one brief moment mattered in the end. Of course, as with all good love stories, the night ended with fireworks, brilliant streaks of neon color lighting up the cool Michigan night. I haven’t seen her since, and know that I never will again, but all that is important is that I was there, watching baseball in a park, speaking to an angel with a scorecard, and that the Tigers won it in the bottom of the tenth. It was exhilaration, it was pure joy, and it was a moment that will live forever through the pencil marks upon a piece of paper. Sometimes, things just seem to come full circle, I guess.

“Shut up, Mulder, I’m playing baseball.” –Dana Scully

Opening Day

"in Just-

spring when the world is mud-

luscious the little

lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and

piracies and it's

spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer

old balloonman whistles

far and wee

and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's

spring

and

the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles

far

and

wee"

-E.E. Cummings

There’s something special about Opening Day, a sensation that can only compare to the cool autumn Saturdays in Ann Arbor, watching winged helmets fly around a field. Yet, I’m not going there today, because it is spring that’s in the air, not fall, and I’ll be longing for football soon enough. Besides, the feelings are comparable, but they’re not the same. There is an undeniable magic about them both that leaves my mind soaring and my heart pounding in my chest, but it isn’t the same, not at all.

I love watching hockey, college basketball and the NFL, and sure there is excitement for the start of those seasons, but it honestly isn’t in the same galaxy as the beginning of baseball season. It’s not even that I like baseball more, but there is just something different about Opening Day. It is the major leagues at its purest, the closest they ever get to what baseball truly means. It is something inexplicable that is tied up in all those baseball clichés spouted off by so many, but which have never quite rung true for me. But, I’m not going to discuss them, or analyze them, or even repeat them. Do with them what you wish, today I want no part. I’m not going to make the claim that I will truly express the feelings that baseball conjures in the hearts of so many, or that it will be closer to the truth than those old adages, but simply that this will come from my soul.

Baseball is youth, and spring, and that feeling you get sitting on your front porch, a warm breeze blowing through your hair while the crickets perform a symphony around you. It is a warm night surrounding you, and making you feel so small, and yet so important and content in the very same instant. It is just basking in spring and closing your eyes to savor that sicky-sweet aroma wafting through your bedroom window as you lie in the dark, thinking about the end of school and the promise of an eternal summer.

In Michigan those first few warm days are an event, a celebration of finally feeling at peace with nature again, of the warmth of the world permeating your entire being. You know how fleeting they are, and you embrace them for fear that next week, or even tomorrow sleet will be raining down upon you. So you sit beneath the inky blackness, watching the moon, the stars and the soft glow of the street lamp, sacrificing yourself to the mosquitoes, because a few dozen bites are a welcome nuisance when compared to the ice, snow and cold that had gripped the land for months. Winter is wonderful in its own way, but it is harsh, and it’s the struggle against nature that makes it so thrilling.

Spring is that counterpoint, that relief from the icy grip that embraced your world. It is relief, relaxation, and wiggling your toes in the cool grass as the sun beats down on you and warms your very soul. It is running around until you can feel the tangy sweat on your body, stopping for a moment just to relish where you are and all the possibilities that this fresh start has brought, and going full tilt again. It’s digging your hands into the earth, squeezing it between your fingers and remembering what it feels like to build dirt mounds, sand castles, and to dig to your heart’s content. It’s shoving your arms into mud up to the elbows, just to feel like a kid again for one instant and to not care that it’s caking your hands, that your feet are grass stained and your knees scraped. To remember a time before careers and essays and loans, to feel at one with the world and to feel that easy happiness that only childhood can bring is what baseball truly means.

It’s spring, it’s baseball, it’s Opening Day, and it’s something deeper than a game, than a sport, than a stick and a ball. It’s life at its purest, because it’s childhood and nature and happiness. It’s little league, and kick the can, and the joy that the ice cream truck brought. It’s hot summers, and cold sprinklers, shorts and a baseball card in the spokes of your bike tire. It’s living everyday not as it’s your last, but as if that moment is all that matters. It’s running and yelling all day long because one little body cannot hope to contain so much excitement. It’s the reckless abandon of youth, and the joy of being free.

That’s baseball. That gritty dirt between your fingers as your grip your bat, the gravel in your cleats, and the tan stains on your once white pants. Because what’s the fun when you don’t slide? The joy that came to hear the crack of the bat, the smack of the ball in the glove and the umpire calling the game from behind the plate, to be crouched in the infield, eyes never leaving the batter, yearning for that little white ball to fly your way. It’s leaping forward with every hack the batter takes in hopes that that ball will come whizzing across the gravel towards you, the disappointment when it doesn’t, and the fluttery excitement when it does. It’s scooping a grounder up in your mitt and throwing it to first with all your might. It is the endless energy and enthusiasm of youth, and all the good things about growing up.

That’s Opening Day, because there is nothing purer and more hopeful than a beginning, when winning doesn’t matter because you’re just glad that baseball’s back and everything is right with the world. Because soon enough there will be disappointment with every loss, and anxiety over every close game, you’ll get annoyed with players, and managers and those broadcasters who you wish would just shut up. Throughout one hundred and sixty-two games there will be excitement, fear, unease, disappointment, annoyance, elation, and a thousand more emotions wallowing up inside you, and countless expressions of those feelings spewing from your mouth, but not today. In the end, all the controversy, contract negotiations and advertising mean nothing, because you’re watching baseball again. None of that stuff is of any importance when it’s Opening Day and nine men (who might just as well be boys) are out on that emerald green field with Old English Ds on their caps and mitts upon their hands. It’s baseball, and it is spring, and nothing else matters.

Opening Day is all about the pure joy of the game, the happiness to just exist, and to remember what baseball means to you and to so many others. To be content to watch a game, to sit back and let the worry wash away, to be a kid again, if only for one day, because, it’s baseball, and it’s spring, and nothing else matters.