No matter what they do, they can’t take away my love of the game.
They can be players who stick steroids in their behinds and human growth hormone in their bellies.
They can be arrogant jerks and not sign autographs for boys and girls before batting practice, or not talk to me in the clubhouse after the bottom of the ninth.
They can make $10 million a year and not be able to win 10 times or hit 10 homers.
They can be lousy owners who don’t spend money, but raise ticket prices and won’t admit they are wrong, or incompetent general managers who can’t make a trade or a bed, or a head-in-the-dirt commissioner or a stupid manager who thinks the double switch and a left-handed pinch hitter against a right-handed pitcher are the greatest inventions since the remote control and Cheetos.
They can be sleazy agents, despicable personal trainers and dopes.
They can gamble, cheat, curse, do drugs, drink whiskey from a fruit jar and lie.
They can go on strike.
But they can’t take away my memories, the sensations at the ballpark, my emotions during the World Series and the All-Star Game, the taste of a hot dog, the thrill of extra innings and my passion for baseball.
I can separate the oddballs of the sport from the essence of the game.
At spring training I can smell the grass, hear the pop of the ball in the glove, feel the sun on my face and see the smash off the bat into center field.
I know that the most famous sports columnist of all, Red Smith, was right when he wrote: “Ninety feet between bases represents man’s closest approach to perfection. The fastest man in the world hits a grounder to an infielder, who fields it cleanly. The hitter must lose the race. But if the ball is bobbled or slowed by the grass, he can win. That’s perfect balance.”
So, too, William Shakespeare, not a sports columnist or a Josh Bard, who wrote: “Hence! Home, you idle creatures, get you home” and “He’s safe.”
A collection of United States Representatives gathered at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party last week and said such things as “Mr. Clemens, all I can say is, I’m sure you’re going to heaven,” and “Mr. Clemens, do you recall bleeding through your pants,” but never a “Mr. Clemens, why is a raven like a writing desk?”
My thoughts wandered to:
Dad and son rode the train from Memphis, Tenn., to St. Louis, shared stories about their summer and debated the merits of Stan The Man and The Say Hey Kid, checked into The Chase Park Plaza, where the visiting ballplayers stayed, ate at the Steak n Shake, attended a Friday night game, a Saturday doubleheader (two actual games for the price of one) and a Sunday afternoon series finale at Sportsman’s Park, marveled at the right-field porch they’d heard so much about on the radio broadcasts, filled out their scorecards and settled in to watch the weak Redbirds lose three of four against the strong Giants.
They can’t take away the meaning of that weekend.
In 1991, a columnist for The Post had an idea (ambitious, but stupid): spend a day at every major-league baseball spring training camp, 30 days, 26 teams, Florida, Arizona and California. One morning with the Pirates and Barry Bonds, the next afternoon with the Dodgers and Tommy Lasorda, two days later with the Angels and Gene Autry and a final day in Tucson at an old, inadequate facility with the Cleveland Indians and Glenallen Hill. The journey was long and grinding, with nights at Motel 6 and days on interstates. It was a gratifying trip like no other.
They can’t take away the experience of that month.
First home game, first season for the Rockies, 1993, Mile High Stadium, Montreal Expos, 80,227, Eric Young leads off the bottom of the first with a home run. Rockies win, Rockies win, Rockies win, 11-4.
They can’t take away the remembrance of that day.
In 1981, the World Series was contested between the two most-storied franchises, the Yankees and the Dodgers. A fireballing closer from Colorado, Rich Gossage, recorded (two-inning) saves in the first two games at Yankee Stadium, but the Dodgers won the next three at Dodger Stadium and returned to win the Series in New York. It was a treasured event, stored away in the recesses to bring out on snowy December evenings.
They can’t take away the adventures of a lifetime — World Series games in Toronto, Atlanta, Philadelphia, New York, Los Angeles, Minneapolis, St. Louis . . .
Boston and Denver. Un-worldly-believeable. The lights were on, and the Rockies were home. Rox rock.
They can’t take away the field of dreams realized.
On a July night in the 1950s, a young father worked at his part-time job, repairing TVs in the shop behind the garage he built by himself, and his Little Leaguer kid stood just outside the door with glove and ball. Harry Caray’s voice pierced the darkness. “It’s a groundball heading to right. Red Schoendienst with a diving stop. On his knees. He gets off the throw to first. Out! Holy cow!” The boy throws the ball off the garage wall — thwump — dives to his left, makes the grab and throws the ball against the garage wall. “Out,” his dad says. “Holy cow!”
They can’t take away from the game I love. It’s bigger and better than they are.
Woody Paige: 303-954-1095 or wpaige@denverpost.com
