Baseball is inextricably tied to the greatness of America. Now, if you are one of the many women addicted to my blog, go on back in the kitchen or go darn some socks, because you just won’t get the rest of this column.
In the good ole USA, boys play baseball. Boys love baseball, grown men love baseball. The fondest memories of my life (and those of most guys I know) revolve around baseball. Today is Father’s Day, and I can honestly say that the best, most blissful time of my life was when I would come home from work and my boy would be waiting for me with his glove on, my glove in his lap and a baseball in his hand. We would pitch, field grounders, catch pop ups, play hotbox and have batting practice. Hundreds of baseball games would follow, most of which I coached, and never, ever, not for one second did I ever tire of it all. There is no experience, absolutely none, any better than just playing catch with your son or your old man. It is indescribable sheer joy and contentment.
Only baseball evokes such awesome memories, you can hear, feel, smell and taste them: falling asleep while listening to the Orioles on the AM radio, the crack of a wood bat, the smell of cut grass, the dusty infield dirt stuck between your teeth and drying up your throat, oiling your glove to break it in, sliding head first and hugging the bag, baseball chatter……
I went to school in England for a bit and remember going to a “fair” on the town green in Cambridge, where there was a game throwing a ball to knock over milk bottles. I like the Brits, my second favorite country, our best ally, but even the Brits can’t throw a damn ball. Noodle arms. It was sad, it was embarrassing. No wonder they lost their Empire. Once I tossed a pack of cigarettes to “Jean Paul” at a Paris Cafe, he dropped his little demitasse cup and spilled espresso all over himself. Pitiful.
It is a simple and undeniable fact that America rules the world because of baseball. My name is Rob, and I am….(always) RIGHT.