To be an American and unable to play baseball is
comparable to being a Polynesian and unable to swim. It's an impossible situation." So begins John Cheever's short story, The National Pastime.
Fortunately for me, baseball is part of who I am. Like multitudes before me, I played the
game as a kid. I am an American.
More than any other sport, to know baseball is to
"know the heart and mind of America," as Jacques Barzun commented. It changes with the times, but fundamentally
stays the same. Professional baseball was
an all "white boys" game but once the color barrier was crossed it
morphed into a multicultural field of boys from Cuba, South and Central
America, Japan. Taiwan, not to mention all races from every state in the
nation. It has been tarnished by steroid
use and by the all mighty dollar, making it big business, even a show business. In effect, it reflects our society and the
values of our culture. Yet, it not only survives, as does our nation, it thrives.
Baseball is more than a sport. It is a ritual, like a
religion, binding all those who walk through the tunnels on their way to their
seats, emerging to view the majesty of the field itself. It is the altar where the unique ancestral
rituals of the game are played out.
There is a symbolism in the game's subtle moments that connect us with a
sense of mysticism. It remains special, sacred
and spiritual.
How fitting that the season begins in the spring, a
rebirth of sorts, and ends in the fall, going into hibernation until the next
spring. And so, we begin the cycle
again, and again, from one generation to the next. Let the games begin!
