Jason Gallic – Opinions in Paradise The older I got, the less interested I became in the dusty diamond. Instead, I turned to what I saw as a more fluid, energetic game – basketball. But I was nine once. And,
Jason Gallic – Opinions in Paradise
The older I got, the less interested I became in the dusty diamond. Instead, I turned to what I saw as a more fluid, energetic game – basketball.
But I was nine once.
And, as happens with so many youngsters, baseball was my game of choice. The crack of the bat, the ball popping into the glove, the family bonds it helped me develop – I can’t put my finger on all the reasons I loved baseball.
But much of the interest was brewed by the Atlanta Braves. Until I was nine, I was raised by my single mother. We didn’t have much money, but she always managed to keep cable on the television. That piped Superstation TBS into our living room on a regular basis – and with it, the Atlanta Braves.
The station was airing maybe 60 games a year back then (it’s up to 92 now). And so I fell in love with Dale Murphy, the Braves’ home-run pounding outfielder in the mid-1980’s. And others, too, whose names are too far from memory to bring back.
As luck would have it, my grandparents lived in Atlanta. Braves’ paraphernalia arrived in boxes every Christmas and birthday. When they’d come to Oregon to visit, Grandpa and I would head to the backyard, where he would tuck down like a catcher and field my 30 MPH fastball, then cringe like it stung his hand. I’d always give myself the name of a Braves’ pitcher.
We finally went to Atlanta to visit my grandparents when I was 10. Grandpa had two tickets to a Braves’ game, third baseline, right behind the dugout. We were pals, then – seemingly joined at the baseball hip.
That mid-summer night’s drive to Fulton County Stadium seemed to pad what was a pretty solid relationship. He told me stories of the games he’d been to in the past, of seeing Hank Aaron.
The city was beautiful, and the stadium laid out like a Mecca.
All the times I’d seen it on television didn’t do it justice. Everything was huge: the gates, the stadium walls, the foam “We’re No. 1” fingers.
Grandpa bought me a program and a Coke and ushered me to our seats.
I don’t know that I could handle sitting through too many three-plus-hour games today, but then, I felt as though I could move in. The first time the perfectly-manicured grass field and expanse of the stadium hit me, I was speechless.
I couldn’t have loved my grandfather more than I did at that moment. Like a first kiss or first car, he had facilitated my first pro baseball experience. And I melted into it.
I realized – sitting there in the moments before game time – that the sounds of baseball are similar, whether played in backyards or Big League parks. The same crack of the bat as home runs shot out of the batting cages; the sound of outfielders playing catch; and the murmur of the stadium.
The differences showed up at first pitch. The intensity was magnificent. Infielders bent in preparation for a ground ball on every play. Batters endured lengthy rituals while waiting in the on-deck circle.
Then, in the bottom of the ninth inning, with the Braves trailing 5-3, a left-handed pinch-hitter (I don’t remember his name) stepped to plate. The bases were loaded, and he cracked a home run. My grandfather dropped his nachos.
“I can’t believe you got to see a grand slam at your first baseball game!”
I couldn’t either.
“Thank you so much for bringing me, Grandpa.”
The pinch-hitter trotted around the bases. He was swept away at the plate by ecstatic teammates.
The stadium, only three-quarters full, swayed as if watching a rock concert. All the feelings were magnetic, and I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to do anything but play baseball. I was ready to turn in my high-tops.
But I was 10 then.
And as the frequency of contact dwindled between my grandfather and I, so did my love of the game. I don’t know if a direct correlation exists.
He had helped considerably to foster my love of baseball – gotten me trading cards and my first glove. When I was younger, it was all we’d talk about during phone calls.
After I moved out of mom’s house, contact with my grandparents nearly ceased. I can’t put my finger on a definitive reason why.
But I find it interesting that my affinity for baseball has waned as well.
