What is Right with This World

I remember when I first picked up a baseball.

The stitches intrigued me, red thread woven over and under the soft white cow hide. It smelled like nothing else, felt like nothing else and I immediately knew that this baseball symbolized much more than just one of the millions of baseballs identical to it.

The baseball was a beacon, a home and an asylum from chores, homework and stress as a kid. Paired with the glove, the ball became complete. Being reuniting with each other with a satisfying pop, playing catch became more than an exercise and more of a drug. A drug in which the only thing I needed was to hear that sweet sound in the warm summer air.

I can still taste the dry air, sunflower seeds and Big League Chew on the tip of my tongue. I can still hear the ping of a bat and the roar of the crowd, and I feel at home. Growing up I could sense that the simple game of baseball meant much more to me than a game, it was a past time. 

All of these sensations I experienced is something every American kid shares with each other since this great game was created over a century ago. I once read a children's book on Babe Ruth and his career. He too was a kid like me. So was Lou Gehrig, Honus Wagner, Jackie Robinson, Hank Aaron and every other great ball player. I instantly became connected and engaged with the past and present love for the game.

I started collecting cards, keeping the pieces of cardboard safe and sound in an old shoe box as they were the rich currency on the playground at school. I still have them to this day, and often look back and remember how much I cherished the Topps in plastic sleeves. 

Today, I realize baseball has become a part of who I am. I played it until I was 13, but a Giant-faithful I continued to be. My lack of skill may have made me lose interest in playing the game competitively, but I still yearn to play the game I grew up with.

 I miss the leather on my left hand because it just belongs there. It feels right. I miss the pop of the glove, the smooth, ruff texture of a baseball, and I miss playing catch with the one who taught it all to me: my dad. 

My coach, my father and my friend was there when I picked up a baseball for the first time, and this weekend he will accompany me to Scottsdale, AZ for our first Spring training. Together we have been dreaming of going since I could remember. 

We both want to feel the same sensations we felt as kids, we want to feel the newborn optimism of the spring time, and we want to feel like we are still a part of the game. We want to spit seeds in the hot desert sun, eat a few hot dogs and watch the players that brought us our first World Series ever. 

I have a feeling that once I'm there, everything will  feel right. The way it used to be, and the way it shall always be. 

Go Giants.

*I will be doing game coverages this weekend so stay tuned*