“It’s hard not to be romantic about baseball…”

Why do I love baseball? Though it’s a simple question, not exactly a curveball, the answer is incredibly layered and intricate. A love of the game is naturally felt but it can be incredibly hard to capture accurately in words.

There’s just something about baseball. The tradition. The unwritten rules. The crack of the bat. The smell of the grass. The warmth of the sunshine. The 6-4-3 double play. The 12-6 curve. The superstitions. The announcers. The nuances of the different ballparks. Hot dogs and warm beer. The fact that you can enjoy it just listening to it. The childhood dreams played out in backyards and ball fields across the land.

Sometimes I think people won’t really understand unless they played the game. Baseball’s just different. I’m old enough to remember how a new baseball season sent a charge through my household. My mother, a huge baseball fan, would help me count down the days until the first Phillies game would be on television.

When I was eleven years old I was convinced I was going to pitch for the Phillies one day. I spent hours and days in my back yard pitching for them against hated rivals like the Mets and Braves. My rusty pitch-back withstanding the thunder of my fastballs as I struck out batter after batter. When I was young, I dreamt I was untouchable…

Is it nostalgia that returns us to the game we first loved? As I grew life became more, ahem, challenging. As it often does. Yet, baseball in all it’s beautiful simplicity was always there. Always reminding me of the warm summer days when I had a radio and a worn out mitt and lightening bugs and a porch swing and the voice of Harry Kalas and Richie Asburn.

It was idyllic, really. A humble slice of Americana that seems to have disappeared in a new world of social media and instant gratification. I don’t just miss it. I love it. I need to recall it. It calms me. It soothes and reminds me of easier times filled with dreams. Even if your team loses, even if there is heartbreak, there is the promise of tomorrow. A new day, a clean slate, a whole new ballgame.

I had been drifting from the game in the last few years. However I was fortunate enough to spend an amazing weekend last October in Cooperstown, NY. Visiting the Hall of Fame on a crisp autumn day and diving headfirst into a community that lives and breathes the game felt good. It felt right. I was reminded of the history and charm of the game. I was reenergized. My love rekindled. The memories flooded back and I felt safe and sure of myself for the first time in a long time.

Whether you are in the bleachers at a high school on a warm spring day, cheering on your kid’s team or casually flip by a pro game on TV, the charm and allure is palatable. The romance, the sense of hope, the calm and the memories come flooding back every time. It’s always like coming home. Safe and pure.

The ones who run the modern game may try and change the game. They may try to “speed up” play to appeal to a new generation. It’s inevitable and that’s ok. Baseball has changed greatly throughout history and yet it’s always been the same. If you love the game the game will always be there for you. Whatever solace you find in the warm memories and wide open spaces for dreams of summers past will always be there. Always.

Imperfect. Perfectly imperfect. I like that.