The Baseball Time Machine

Richard and Dad Opening Day 2011

 

Baseball is a time machine.  You walk in to the ballpark gate and you recall the first day you went to a game holding your Dad’s hand and eating cracker jacks.   I close my eyes and still can hear when my son was a toddler standing on the Home Run Porch and simply saying “wow” as he looked over the rail seeing Jacobs Field for the first time.  There is something special about baseball.

The time machine takes me back to a lazy Saturday afternoon watching a televised baseball game with my Uncle Ray.  He was a simple man who liked baseball.   I can see him saying the rosary prayers as we watched the Yankees clobber the Indians.  I smile as I hear him yell, “that Reggie Jackson is a Son of a…” before my saintly Aunt Virginia would yell “Raymond.” He would smile and say “Ricky, that Reggie Jackson is a “Son of Beehive.”

I fondly recall as a kid my family driving up to Cleveland  to catch a baseball game.  Sitting in cold Municipal Stadium, I would imagine all the great baseball players who once walked onto to the field in that old cavernous ballpark.  I laugh as I think about Oriole manager Earl Weaver shredding the rulebook as he was booted from a game.  More importantly,  I just remember being there with my parents and brother.  It was always a good time.

The late 1990’s were a great time to be a Tribe fan.   Catching games, as the tribe was in the playoffs is a memory to last a lifetime.  My brother and my Dad were part of the opening ceremonies for the 1995 World Series.   A moment my Dad and Mike cherish.  If the Tribe won,  I called my Dad to hear him answer the phone by asking “is this heaven” and I would simply answer “nope, it is Iowa.” 

In 2004,  my son (Richard), my dad, my father in law, and I attended Richard’s first opening day experience.  Yesterday, Richard recalled his memories from that time machine moment.  He laughed as he told his buddy about his Grandfathers teasing him that they were going to turn him into the police for the $10 truant student reward.  He smiled as he said, “Dad, remember Grampa Oxley watching me eating popcorn with my winter gloves on.”

I don’t know who was happier in 2004.  Richard has a picture of his Grandfathers and him at opening Day.  Grampa Pitt now watches the Indians from the heavenly field boxes.  I wore his Indians Jacket yesterday to honor his memory.  Grampa Oxley was the first person Richard called after the game yesterday.   Listening to Richard talking with my Dad is always my “field of dreams” moment. 

Richard is no longer that toddler that first walked into Jacobs Field.   He is no longer the 11 year old who ate popcorn with his gloves on sitting between his grandfathers.  Sitting with me at the game yesterday was my son the man.  Listening to him recall the games he attended as a youth made his old Dad realize that baseball will always be a binding thread in our friendship as it is with my Dad and me.  

I now realize what my Dad always knew.  Catching a baseball game with your son builds fond memories to last lifetime.   With all due respect to Lou Gehrig, I am the luckiest man in the world.   I have experienced the joy of being a son watching a game with his Dad and the absolute joy of watching my son enjoy a game with his Dad.  Baseball is my time machine.