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Opening Day: It Happens Every Spring

A lifelong baseball fan reflects on his love of the game

By Howie Good

"In the Spring," Lord Tennyson rhapsodized, "a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love." And an older man's? Inevitably, this older man's fancy turns to baseball.

In that regard, I resemble Vernon Simpson, the bespectacled chemistry professor played by Ray Milland in the 1949 movie "It Happens Every Spring." (I'm a journalism professor.) For half the year, Simpson conscientiously teaches his classes and pursues his research. But for the other six months, April to October, he is driven to distraction by his mania for the old ball game.

Two kids playing baseball in the 50s, opening day, Next Avenue
Credit: Getty

One day in the lab, Simpson stumbles onto a substance that makes baseballs miss bats. He takes a leave of absence from his university, signs with his favorite team, the St. Louis Cardinals, and pitches them to the pennant. Although I wondered, the movie never says whether this counted toward tenure.

An overfondness for baseball may be the least of the faults Hollywood has attributed to the professoriate, but one of the few of which it may actually be guilty. Roger Kahn, author of the baseball classic, "The Boys of Summer," even published an article that attempted to explain the pronounced popularity of baseball among intellectuals.

Between pitches, batters and innings, they have ample time to analyze, speculate and, just as important, share their resulting insights with any poor soul within earshot.

Remembering Happy Moments Through Baseball

I do appreciate what has been called the "ballet of baseball," the intricate, interlocking movements of pitcher, batter and fielders on the diamond. But if I am being honest, my appreciation comes heavily laced with nostalgia.

Some of my happiest moments growing up were spent trading baseball cards with my friends or playing ball with them in the street. "Hey," we would shout at the cars that interrupted our games, "would you do this at Yankee Stadium?"

My most valued possession was my baseball glove, a Roger Maris signature model with a sixth finger instead of ordinary webbing.

My most valued possession was my baseball glove, a Roger Maris signature model with a sixth finger instead of ordinary webbing. That glove molded itself to my hand through who knows how many sandlot and Little League games. I made graceful backhand stops with it and improbable diving catches as well as a few – all right, more than a few – errors.

But whether I booted the ball or scooped it cleanly, the glove was being burnished to an orangey gold by the sun and the infield dirt and the slow passage of the seasons.

My Full Baseball Consciousness

F. Scott Fitzgerald derided baseball as "a boy's game with no more possibilities in it than a boy can master, a game bounded by walls which kept out novelty or danger, change or adventure." As a professor and a Ph.D., shouldn't I display more serious interests? Shouldn't I have grown up by now?

No.

I reached full baseball consciousness in 1962, the year The New York Mets were expanded into existence, and I have identified with the team ever since. This doesn't always feel like it was my smartest move. Only the Mets could have had a third baseman who was nicknamed "Dr. No" by sportswriters for his seemingly iron hands or team owners who were cleaned out by Bernie Madoff.

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The ability to "root, root, root for the home team" can require overlooking many of the less attractive aspects of today's game. My own list of what is wrong with Major League Baseball includes predatory owners, narcissistic players, overpriced stadium food, the pitch clock and The Philadelphia Phillies.

The true baseball fan recognizes the underlying seriousness of play.

In spite of everything – the money, the hype – I love baseball and suppose I always will. I can still see beauty in the drop on a 12-to-six curveball, still find a kind of art in a suicide squeeze.

The true baseball fan recognizes the underlying seriousness of play. Or, as legendary pitcher Walter Johnson put it,  "Baseball is simply the dramatization of the life struggle of a man."

Anyone who has ever graded stacks of midterm papers or tried to draw out a roomful of recalcitrant students can identify with the situation of a batter in a two-strike hole; a shortstop who must handle a bad-hop grounder; a runner left stranded on third, 90 feet from home.

After a year lived in the presence of a murderous virus, I am looking forward to Opening Day on April 1 even more than usual.

It means the start of not only the baseball season, but also of much else. It means renewed hope. It means high skies and the tang of fresh-cut grass. It means spring is here, and summer is coming, with baseball on the car radio and baseball on TV and, perhaps best of all, no school!

Howie Good has taught journalism for 37 years at SUNY-New Paltz. He is the author of more than 20 books. Read More
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