The Friend I Never Forgot

When I was younger, we would often visit my grandparents’ home during the summers. I was often preoccupied with my assorted blocks in a can or chapter books about Ramona or the Boxcar children (growing up in the 90s was slightly different, of course). Even though I was distracted by my childhood proclivities, I often remember hearing something in the background. My grandfather had a radio that sat on a shelf in the hallway off the kitchen. Often, music or some variation of a news would crackle through its staticky airwaves. But occasionally, there was a noise of something else.

A baseball game.

 In 2021, the world was in the beginning stages of recovering from 2020. Social distancing was still very much a thing. Face masks were still advised even in places that weren’t healthcare related and if a poll had been taken about the overall feeling regarding livelihood, maybe it was cautiously optimistic. But 2021 was the year I got to see my first baseball game in person. The Chicago Cubs vs. the Chicago White Sox. A cross-town rivalry, defined by bitterness and blurred lines of prosperity. Both teams were having down years. Neither was substantially better than the other. But in down years, rivalries still hold the same discontent.

Walking into Wrigley Field for the first time, I instantly felt the word-of-mouth allure I had heard from others. History. Triumphs. Pain. Controversies. The joy of releasing over a 100-year curse. As soon as I walked in…I felt all those feelings in one. Trapezing through the green seats and staring off at the scoreboard, more than ever I felt my childhood memory colliding with the present. Baseball was comforting. Baseball was peaceful. Baseball was a long forgotten best friend…finding its way home again. To my dismay, the White Sox won the game. (speaking as a Cubs fan). But truthfully, the loss did not dampen the experience. The memory far surpassed any item I collected throughout the afternoon.

 Baseball is often forgotten in the landscape of American sports. Even though it is deemed “America’s Pastime” it is often wedged between the dominant machines of the NFL and the NBA. Partially due to its lack of marketing and all the controversies that surround replay and pitch clocks. But also, because somewhere along the way, baseball was thrown to the wayside. Forgotten and a figment of a distant path.

Can you name some of the greatest players in baseball’s history?

Babe Ruth.

Hank Aaron.

Joe Dimaggio.

Albert Pujols.

Cal Ripken Jr. (my personal favorite player of all time).

Those names are synonymous with baseball and so are countless others. You can pretty much google search anything nowadays and anything you want to know about those players or anything else will be at your fingertips. Often lost in those internet worm holes; are the simplicity of what baseball is at its core. It’s a carton of slightly buttered popcorn passed between fathers and sons. It’s a hotdog that has a slightly different and better taste than one you could make at your barbecue at home. It’s the chatter amongst rival teams about what has led to the demise or success of their franchise. It’s the scratching of the pencil on a scorecard. It’s the little daughters draped in jerseys, holding their mothers’ hands as they glide through the crowds. It’s the baseball players doing warmups hours before the game starts. It’s the possibility of catching your star player’s signature on a baseball card. It’s a baseball soaring through the air, mystically and magnified in the sunlight.

Baseball encompasses so many things.

Then, there is nothing quite like playoff baseball. The intensity. The pressure. The expectations. The heroes. The failures. Those flashing lights can burn so incessantly that some of the greatest baseball players are a shell of themselves in the biggest moments. Take one listen to New York radio and you will hear the disappointment weaving through the airwaves of the Yankees’ playoff baseball. There is nothing quite like that. Even the most causal fan can be transfixed by it. Watching a player stand alone in a batter’s box, down 0-2 in the strike count, with their team trialing by one run reminds us of all that not everyone can do that. Or would want to do that. But nonetheless, watching it freezes us in time. You don’t have to be a fan of any team, to lack appreciation for the moment. If you are a fan…it’s your old friend coming to haunt you…or coming to jump in joy alongside you.

The NFL capitalizes on its short season. Between the fantasy leagues, the constant social media and the countless barrage of opinions, the NFL is like the friend who incessantly texts you to tell you about everything that happened that day. Sometimes you have the patience for it. Sometimes you don’t. The NBA 82 game season can sometimes feel too long and unexciting. If NBA players were not some of the most recognizable celebrities, the NBA could lose itself in its long season. Thankfully, it has Wemby. It has Giannis. It has Luka. It has Steph. It has Knicks. The NBA is that friend that shows up to gatherings reminding you they’re still cool even though they’re bogged down with deadlines and daily life. It’s worth mentioning that our country focuses on other sports like tennis, golf, hockey and its new obsession, pickleball, but only three really dominate the sports world. And then there’s baseball. The 162-game season seemingly starts in April. Spring training begins when the temperature begins to slightly change and rain becomes a dominant fixture of the day. Hopefulness begins for a lot of teams. One benefit of such a long season is that a team is never truly out of it. There are plenty of opportunities to turn a season around. Plenty of opportunities for a wary fanbase to become unwary. Baseball is the friend that sends you a postcard or a letter because stamps do still exist. Baseball is the friend that calls you to remind you that you are valued. Always.

The Los Angeles Dodgers are the world series champions, again. Whether that frustrates you or not, the Dodgers seem to find their way to the top every year. They also have arguably the best player in the game, Shohei Ohtani. Life for Dodgers fans is one of bliss and happiness. One the other side, fans of the Pittsburgh Pirates or Los Angeles Angels may feel misery or complete lack of understanding for their teams continued lack of success. While there has been much conversation about whether there is an unfair advantage for teams with unlimited payroll and if there will ever be a more balanced system, the Dodgers have figured out how to dominate the conversation either way. It’s commendable, if not for most people, contemptable. (As a Cubs fan, it’s slightly irritating). The Dodger fans welcome baseball each season with excitement and gratitude. It doesn’t just have to be a Dodger fan though; it can be any fan.

When summer arrives, trips and outings distract us. We can run to beaches, islands and forests to camp. We run to festivals and concerts. We can run to lakes and boats. We also run to baseball fields. Why do you think that? It’s because nothing compares to that summer sun and the sound of a ball off a baseball bat. That ketchup dripping from our fingers or that ice cold drink almost spilling out of our hand when our team makes a double play to end an inning. It’s indescribable. It’s incomparable. A baseball field is our childhood dreams all wrapped in one. For two-three hours you can just enjoy the moment. You can even forget about that little rectangle in your pocket. For a few hours, nothing else matters. Just the game.

Sitting in those seats in Wrigley, my thoughts wandered to my grandfather. He had passed away years ago, but he remained in memory. Admittedly, after he passed away, I kept his number on my phone for a long time, unwilling to accept his passing. I wished at that moment that I had gotten to experience that with him. Instead of those blocks in a tin can, I wish I had a baseball and a mitt. I wish I had sat on a worn-down seat alongside him and filled in a score card and found it later, in my pocket. Something about that place made me think of my childhood. That radio in the background. That sun that would shine through the front window. Life was simple then. Baseball is everything that we wish for life to be now.

So maybe next year, when June days beckon, you can call your best friend and ask if you should meet up again.

I bet you…the answer will be yes.