It's Personal: Baseball Part I

Baseball was made for kids, and grown-ups only screw it up. ~Bob Lemon

I was born with baseball in my blood. How could I help it? My grandfather loved the game. Hank Greenburg, his favorite player. The Detroit Tigers, his favorite team. The old man loves the game. The Mick, his idol. The New York Yankees, his team.

I suppose it's no wonder I was born on a day when the New York Yankees defeated the Detroit Tigers in Yankee Stadium by a score of 8-7. Almost as if the old man and his old man were determining what my baseball fate would be.

The New York Yankees, having acquired 'Mr. October', won their first World Series in 15 years in that year. The decision had certainly been made.

One year later - exactly one year later - I was no doubt trying to speak some of my first words on George Street for the women in my family while the men sat in front of the TV watching Louisiana Lightning pitch a hell of a game. You know, that game in which Sweet Lou lost the ball in the sun in right field but juked just enough to keep Burleson from going to third. And good thing too since Rice's fly ball to right would have been a sac fly.

Oh, and some guy named Bucky hit a homerun.

The Yankees won that year too.

So, you see, it was destiny. I had to love baseball. There was no question.

Ironically, I began my own career on the Mets. That horrifically tacky mix of Dodger Blue and Giant Orange on a three dollar t-shirt. I don't even remember if we were good. What, I was like five.

I remember my next team better. Dressed in a ridiculously pale yellow with black cursive writing. Servicemaster was the name of the team. We referred to ourselves in those days as some odd local corporation. Valentino's. Milici's. A lot of Italian names in the Wallingford area.

That year, the Wallingford Little League - at least for the level in which I played - decided to split the league into an 'A' and 'B' division. The 'A' division was unfairly better than the 'B' division. I was in 'B'.

The old man was the coach. A good coach, mind you, he took the likes of the Bad News Bears - we even had similar uniforms - and molded us into the 'B' division champions. I was a pitcher in those days. Not a great one. I suppose I did well enough. Playing over on those fields near Pond Hill Road. Jimmy Greenwood. That brother and sister combo whose names I can't now recall. What a memory jog.

We were supposed to play the 'A' division champions - Valentino Oil - in some kind of lopsided Wallingford Little League World Series. In which we would have been utterly decimated. The old man said, no thanks. A good thing, in my mind. We all received trophies that year, most likely from our parents' pockets.

It was during that time that the old man introduced us to Yankee Stadium. I remember those treks. Always a little freaked out when I was in New York City. I remember we went with Uncle Mark once. My brother falling asleep in the back seat of the car, his head tilting back and forth as we laughed hysterically. Some dingbat radio personality saying, 'We have a wiener here.' So many things are funny at that age.

I soon graduated from Servicemaster into a higher level of the Little League. When baseball became the only outdoor activity in which I would partake. The years after the divorce until high school.

But that's for another time. Baseball Part II, as it were...