More Than Just a Pastime
It's probably safe to say I'm not the biggest sports guy in the world. Sure, I can keep up in a discussion about most athletic competitions (except cricket; what the fuck is going on there...?) and of course I have favorite teams in football, hockey, basketball, and soccer...but baseball was the only one that I ever truly gave a shit about. It really was a bit of a constant while I was growing up: the only other sport my father and grandfather would watch was football and that was only one game a week, sixteen games total (I guess there's a postseason but even early on I kind of knew my team would rarely make it). Baseball had a tradition to it and a romanticism that I found undeniable, even as a kid.
I've heard the common criticisms about baseball: It's too long, too slow, too boring. And, I will admit, the sport doesn't translate as well on TV as most of its counterparts (But if there's a ballgame on TV, I'm totally transfixed) but, for me, that's all part of the experience. There's a soothing element to it all, watching batters take the plate one right after the other in a game where you're nearly guaranteed not one try but three and then rely on your brothers in arms to help you reach one singular objective: to return home.
It is a game of persistence, precision, and patience that works well alone (the other games are too loud to watch solo), with friends/family, on dates. It's a complete sensory experience for me: The crack of wooden bats against the ball, the satisfying thump of that ball in a leather mitt. It's brick-red dirt outlining and cutting through bright green grass all under a sky so blue it hurts just to look at it. It's the smell of overpriced ballpark franks and stale beer in plastic cups with heavily salted peanuts on the side (My dad would always get a big bag of peanuts that I would tentatively graze on in between innings).
Growing up, DC hadn't had its own native ball team since 1971 when the Washington Senators moved to Fort Worth to became the Texas Rangers. That meant we were either going to minor league games on the other side of the Occoquan in Woodbridge or driving all the way up to Baltimore to watch the Orioles defend their stomping grounds in Camden Yards nestled snugly in the city's Inner Harbor. That interstate pilgrimage probably reinforced the concept of going to a baseball game as being an event which has stuck with me ever since.
Even before the economic downturn, Baltimore was fucking rough and even parts of the Inner Harbor were best avoided. But there has always been this working class urban beauty to Charm City, the way all that brickwork juxtaposes against glass and the Orioles homebase in Camden Yards really drove that point home, the ballpark right next to a converted brick warehouse with the concessions in the alley in between. When professional baseball returned to DC towards the tail end of high school, there was a bit of headscratching moment that the former Montreal Expos decided to name themselves the Nationals instead of the legacy team name with Senators especially as they set up shop in the Senators' old digs at RFK Stadium while their new venue was being constructed by the Navy Yards which was still getting over being a particularly rough part of Southeast. I mean, we didn't lose sleep over it; baseball was back in Washington!
I've waxed poetic in my love letter to RFK on here months ago but there is part of me wanted the Nationals to stay there; there's decades of history there, man. I mean, you take nostalgia out of the equation and Nationals Park is far and away the better ballpark by a country mile but if there's anything this whole blog thing proves it's that I'm a sentimentally nostalgic sod. And just as the Capital One Arena gentrified the formerly rough around the edges Chinatown, Nats Park has really gentrified the Navy Yards and the Waterfront; I hardly recognize those neighborhoods now.
To paraphrase Field of Dreams, baseball is the one constant through American history from its humble roots as stickball in the colonial streets and backwoods to its multimillion dollar entertainment now; baseball marks the time. There is something unabashedly romantic about the sport even as it endures steroid scandals and laughably overpriced concessions. Apart from a few intramural teams, I never really did Little League or any of that; my dance card was full of music and martial arts and Boy Scouts right around that time. Only ever played catch once with my dad too if you'll believe it. Not my choice on that. But despite the lack of active participation, the sport has also fascinated and been really endearing to me.
And it's back for the season. Play ball.
I've heard the common criticisms about baseball: It's too long, too slow, too boring. And, I will admit, the sport doesn't translate as well on TV as most of its counterparts (But if there's a ballgame on TV, I'm totally transfixed) but, for me, that's all part of the experience. There's a soothing element to it all, watching batters take the plate one right after the other in a game where you're nearly guaranteed not one try but three and then rely on your brothers in arms to help you reach one singular objective: to return home.
It is a game of persistence, precision, and patience that works well alone (the other games are too loud to watch solo), with friends/family, on dates. It's a complete sensory experience for me: The crack of wooden bats against the ball, the satisfying thump of that ball in a leather mitt. It's brick-red dirt outlining and cutting through bright green grass all under a sky so blue it hurts just to look at it. It's the smell of overpriced ballpark franks and stale beer in plastic cups with heavily salted peanuts on the side (My dad would always get a big bag of peanuts that I would tentatively graze on in between innings).
Growing up, DC hadn't had its own native ball team since 1971 when the Washington Senators moved to Fort Worth to became the Texas Rangers. That meant we were either going to minor league games on the other side of the Occoquan in Woodbridge or driving all the way up to Baltimore to watch the Orioles defend their stomping grounds in Camden Yards nestled snugly in the city's Inner Harbor. That interstate pilgrimage probably reinforced the concept of going to a baseball game as being an event which has stuck with me ever since.
Even before the economic downturn, Baltimore was fucking rough and even parts of the Inner Harbor were best avoided. But there has always been this working class urban beauty to Charm City, the way all that brickwork juxtaposes against glass and the Orioles homebase in Camden Yards really drove that point home, the ballpark right next to a converted brick warehouse with the concessions in the alley in between. When professional baseball returned to DC towards the tail end of high school, there was a bit of headscratching moment that the former Montreal Expos decided to name themselves the Nationals instead of the legacy team name with Senators especially as they set up shop in the Senators' old digs at RFK Stadium while their new venue was being constructed by the Navy Yards which was still getting over being a particularly rough part of Southeast. I mean, we didn't lose sleep over it; baseball was back in Washington!
I've waxed poetic in my love letter to RFK on here months ago but there is part of me wanted the Nationals to stay there; there's decades of history there, man. I mean, you take nostalgia out of the equation and Nationals Park is far and away the better ballpark by a country mile but if there's anything this whole blog thing proves it's that I'm a sentimentally nostalgic sod. And just as the Capital One Arena gentrified the formerly rough around the edges Chinatown, Nats Park has really gentrified the Navy Yards and the Waterfront; I hardly recognize those neighborhoods now.
To paraphrase Field of Dreams, baseball is the one constant through American history from its humble roots as stickball in the colonial streets and backwoods to its multimillion dollar entertainment now; baseball marks the time. There is something unabashedly romantic about the sport even as it endures steroid scandals and laughably overpriced concessions. Apart from a few intramural teams, I never really did Little League or any of that; my dance card was full of music and martial arts and Boy Scouts right around that time. Only ever played catch once with my dad too if you'll believe it. Not my choice on that. But despite the lack of active participation, the sport has also fascinated and been really endearing to me.
And it's back for the season. Play ball.
