Dear Baseball,
We’ve been apart for almost five months now. When the leaves start to fall, the air gets crisp, and the days get short we yearn to draw from the warmth of those long summer nights when we get immersed in your beauty. By now, you’d think we would get use to this. Every year, you leave us; seemingly when we need you the most. Winter is cold and dark - everything baseball isn’t. This was supposed to be the week we get back together. A chance to reconnect under the glow of stadium lights with the smell of stale beer and hotdogs wafting into our nostrils.
But not this year.
No, this year is unlike anything we have ever seen. Sure, we have had to take a break in-season before. There’s been work stoppages, 9/11, and even an earthquake. But never before have we been forced to be apart because being together might literally kill one of us. Like any good relationship, we have to do what is best for one another and, in time, this will likely pass. That doesn’t take the sting out of what’s happening though.
And maybe that’s ok. I mean after all, absence makes the heart grow fonder, right? But in your absence, I need to get something off my chest. Something I should have told you years ago. It’s time for me to tell you how much I love you and what you’ve meant to me.
I started my obsession with you when I was five. Like most warm blooded American boys, you were the first organized sport I was a part of. Nothing quite compares to your first love and my brain can still recall very specific things about you.
I still remember the feel of my first jersey - for Dale’s Pontiac - and how the mesh and pressed on numbers stuck to my skin in the humid summer heat. And the way dust would fly when sliding into a base.
I still remember the smell of my hand when I would take my glove off in-between innings. And the way sweat trickled down my thumb and onto my wrist when I would be taking a prep step at first base. I also remember nibbling on my glove strings and how the taste of leather wasn’t that bad.
I still remember the sweet, sticky aroma of pine tar when standing in the on-deck circle. The smell heightened the sensors in my brain. To an extent, it still does.
I still remember chewing the same type of gum out of ritualistic habit. Extra Wintergreen. One piece for each game (two for doubleheaders). Tucked in my left back pocket. Unwrapped right before warmups. Chewed until the last out. Odd? Maybe. But you never judged me.
We’ve been through so much. A whole lot of good. When I was nine, you let my dad get involved as a coach. He didn’t know much about you but neither of you seemed to care. He took care of the kids he coached and while you were sometimes a jealous mistress, typically you took good care of him. I’ve got so many good memories of the three of us together. Far too many to share here but one night in particular stands out. We were playing the Glen Dale Rebels. Owners of a 36-game winning streak in our hometown league. They were everything we weren’t: Talented. Experienced. Wealthy. They all had Oakley’s and the nicest uniforms money could buy. We were a rag-tag bunch. Scrappy and hard-working. In a lot of ways, we mirrored my dad. The story of that night is too long to recap here but to summarize: The 36-game winning streak ended. It is a night, 25 years later, that I haven’t forgot. I doubt I ever will.
I just want to tell you the bond my dad and I share is as strong as any that I have with anyone. He’s my best friend. The best man in my wedding. My hero. And a lot of that is because of you.
There were some bad times too. You were not always good to me. A nasty hitting slump my sophomore year almost made me walk away from you but that summer… oh that summer after my sophomore year. You and I had a blast. I hit a growth spurt and things started to click. Balls that two-hopped the fence started to clear it with ease. Hitters that timed up my fastball were having a harder time with my newly found velocity. Unfortunately, like most high school summer flings, things had to come to a halt on August 1st. King Football was back and ready to sweep me away for another fall where I would trade my bat and glove for a helmet and shoulder pads.
Except, this August 1 was different. I was miserable. I went through the motions. Tried to get fired up. Pretended to care. But the reality was: I missed you. So, I made a decision to go all in on you as my first, last, and only sports love. I played fall baseball. I spent so much time with you in high school that, at times, my parents had to separate us. I began hitting in my garage off a tee every night into an old area rug my dad hung from the rafters. Setting the ball up and then, “Crack…. thud.” Over and over again. Thousands of times. It became the music that my mom made dinner to. Became the soundtrack of my high school career. “Crack… thud.”
To this day I can remember what it felt like to hit a ball on the sweet spot of my old Easton Z2K. There was nothing like it then. In a lot of ways there is nothing like it now.
Eventually, you and I had to part ways. At least as a “player-game” relationship went. Sure, I went to college and played for a couple of years but eventually my body told me enough was enough. After 15 years, it was time to break things off. I became just another student. I was no longer a ballplayer. From time-to-time we would still meet up, usually at PNC Park in Pittsburgh or in Washington, PA for an Independent League game.
Things felt oddly different though. Going from player to spectator felt… empty. Almost as if I didn’t belong there because I was now paying to see kids younger than me play a game. Eventually, like you always do, you came back around and we reconciled, this time with me becoming a coach. For the next 12 years you gave me the opportunity to work with kids at both the collegiate and high school levels. You gave me a platform with which I was able to connect with hundreds of them. Teaching the game. Teaching them the same lessons my dad and countless other coaches taught me. Giving back. In a lot of ways, you could say we finally came full circle.
Eventually you opened the door to me writing for Prospects Live. Now when I go to watch baseball, I am actually going with a purpose. Looking for specific things in specific players. Stumbling onto guys like Michael Baumann. Seeing Luis Robert in all his majesties. Even getting to talk with scouts who do this for a living and then chatting with people on Discord who love you even more than I do. So much so that I realize you have been giving me a lot more than I have been giving you.
27 years.
That is how much time we have spent together as either a player or coach. It is easily the longest relationship I have ever had and one that, despite some ups and downs, is one I cannot live without. I promise to never take you for granted again and when we do reconnect, I am going to get there early. Like obnoxiously early. Just so I can let the smell of stale beer and hotdogs wash over me like a summer breeze.
But, for the time being, we will stay away from each other. Sure, I’ll watch some classic games. Do some couch scouting and fantasy drafting. It won’t be the same but right now it seems like nothing is. I’ll check in on you here and there. Not that you need me.
Truth is, you never have. I am the one who has always needed you.
Take care - I’ll see you when I see you.
Jason