Spring Fever

The train has really gotten derailed here. I haven’t even written a single word about the NCAA tournament, and this was easily the most exciting tournament that I can remember. I could rattle off a list a mile long of all the ‘distractions’ that have taken me away from the blog, but I will not bore myself. There is some hope for the blog and excitement for me, though, because baseball season is only twenty-six hours away! I am not generally a fan of the Sunday night opener, but this year it’s at Fenway, so I’m psyched despite my disapproval.

I don’t even know where to begin with my love for baseball. Suffice it to say, I love everything about the game except for the people involved with Major League Baseball. My love for baseball was almost derailed a few times by some of the less savory aspects of the professional game. Just as I was really getting into it, learning to keep score, getting my own subscription to SI for Kids, hanging posters in my room, the 1994 strike hit. At the time, I was especially jaded. My school band was one of the organizations that served concessions at the Ballpark in Arlington to raise funds, so I was particularly disgusted by professional athletes, many of whom had multimillion dollar salaries (and the lowest-paid of whom still earned six-figure salaries), on strike while ushers, ticket takers, and concessioners who barely made minimum wage were out of luck and out of work. With a little age and perspective, I know that the players’ case was not without its merits, but ten-year-old Laura did not see it that way.

Just when the bitter taste was starting to wear off, it was 1998 and the dueling medical marvels of McGwire and Sosa commandeered the national pastime. I know the homerun race was supposed to be the cure for baseball apathy, but I guess I was an exceedingly cynical fourteen-year old. I didn’t want to see a 37- (or 61-) year-old record be erased by players of dubious credibility. Even if it was a Yankee record.

I have a general queasiness when it comes to overpaid prima donna players, and I absolutely despise Bud Selig, but I still love baseball. I have no patience for people who have no patience for baseball. There’s something beautiful about the pace. I like football and basketball, too, but I love that I can truly follow and appreciate a baseball game. Maybe it’s because “Baseball is an individual sport disguised as a team sport,” as Bill Simmons recently pointed out. But when I’m watching a typical football game, I probably have almost no idea what more than half the players on the field are doing on any given play. It’s not that I don’t understand football, but there are 22 players on the field all moving at the same time and doing something different. The pace of baseball gives me time to see what the pitcher and batter are doing, how many different signals the catcher is going through, if there’s a shift in the infield, and if a runner is trying to steal. If somebody thinks baseball is boring, they just don’t know what is going on.

I haven’t gotten quite as geeked about spring training as I may have in the past, but I have already seen a few college games, and Easter or not, I’ll be decked out in Red Sox gear from head to toe (literally… I have Red Sox socks, not to mention caps, shirts, earrings, and a few other items) tomorrow.