When I awoke to discover the Baltimore Orioles were the American League Eastern Division champions, I did what all modern Americans do to mark such special occasions: I went to Facebook. There, a high school friend who now lives in North Carolina had summed it up perfectly: “I just wish Dad could have been here to watch. Go ORIOLES!!!!”
Those were my sentiments exactly!
All around the nation, I suspect, Orioles fans and the children of Orioles fans were uttering those same words this morning. My dad died a decade ago, and I’m long past the phantom urge to call him any time there is some exciting news to share. But there are still a few occasions when the “I wish dad could see this” creep in. These are the precious moments in life — when you get married, when you have kids…when the O’s finally win the division.
There’s a reason Kevin Costner made a pretty good living tugging at our heartstrings in films like “Field of Dreams.” I challenge any red-blooded American to watch the scene where he asks his dad,”Wanna have a catch,” and not tear up. Our government should use this as a test to find spies and infiltrators. Never mind “who won the World Series.” If you can watch this clip without crying, you’re probably a Commie!
Speaking of having a catch, the poet Donald Hall wrote that “Baseball is fathers and sons playing catch” — and it is. But it’s also fathers and sons listening to Jon Miller and Joe Angel on WFMD. Or, maybe for you, it was Vin Scully — or some other legendary broadcaster who painted those romantic scenes in your head. How many hours did dad and I spend listening?
(I should also note my mom’s contribution: Taking me to meet some of the Orioles when they came to town for a card show — and buying me pack after pack of baseball cards. … And then, there was Uncle Paul teaching me how to catch — and then hitting me countless fly balls in his garden… It takes a village to raise a baseball fanatic.)
The time spent with dad — playing ball and talking ball and listening to ball games — are some of my dearest memories. And, in fairness, Oriole fans might be especially susceptible to the kind of sentimentality and a yearning for a return to the glory days that I’ve been recently been feeling. After all, this is a once great team who has — for decades, now — fallen on hard times. This is a scrappy team with the unfortunate luck of having to survive in the same division as big-budget teams like the New York Yankees and Boston Red Sox.
It’s a city — not unlike Detroit — where the team’s fortunes matter to the town’s morale — and where recent times (on and off the field) haven’t always been so great. And it’s a team where legendary players like Brooks Robinson, Jim Palmer, and Cal Ripken, Jr. spent their entire careers — proving to hopeless romantics that loyalty still exists, somewhere. And now, a new generation wears the orange and black. New players, yes — but also new fans, like my boys.
So yes, this means a lot. Call me a sap. Say what you will about how much money professional ballplayers make. I don’t care. I’m watching. And rooting. This isn’t just about baseball. It’s about me and dad. And now, my sons. Just trying to salvage one last summer in the sun. Having one more catch.