Play Ball!

Heading out to pick up wings with my son Drew the other night, I reached for the radio dial to turn on the baseball game, only to realize, “Oops, baseball is over.” With a smile, my son suggested that his beloved Yankees were still playing in October, but I respectfully declined to watch the Bronx Bombers, treasonous behavior for a Tribe fan. At least the Red Sox are crying in their beer this postseason along with the Indians. 

What is it about baseball that hooks me? In a Cleveland-based world of celebrity known for stars such as LeBron, Baker and OBJ (Beckham), Tribe players don’t generally earn a five-star paparazzi rating. Frankie Lindor’s smile lights up the diamond as does his bat and glove, but his fellow all-star Shane Bieber is best known for who he isn’t, his nickname jersey reading “not Justin,” the singer-actor whose name appeared on the pitcher’s baseball card. Due to injuries and the fickle finger of fate, so many other players rotated in and out of the lineup that it was hard to keep track of who’s who. 

One of those “fate” narratives was Carlos “Cookie” Carrasco, a pitcher diagnosed with leukemia partway through the season. His recovery and return to the team was a true highlights of the season. The biblical admonition to weep with those who weep and to rejoice with those who rejoice was front and center in Cookie’s health crisis, and it was good to see him compete in the last weeks of the season. 

We didn’t get to Progressive Field this year, so didn’t witness the excitement of life-sized condiments racing into the stadium, nor lift our voices in the iconic “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” at the seventh inning stretch. But many nights, we tuned in to Ashland’s Matt Underwood with the televised play-by-play, or to Hammy and Rosie on the radio as they gossiped around the baseball world in between pitches.

Compared to the constant motion of basketball and the bruising tackles on the gridiron, the action on the diamond is slow, even boring, punctuated by the occasional home run ball or the manager’s nose-to-nose discussion with the umpire. And don’t get me started on the big money earned by the best of the best. Since the Nationals are still in the hunt for a World Series berth this year, perhaps their contracts with pitchers Stephen Strasburg ($38.3 million this year) and Max Scherzer (a measly $37.4 million) will pay off in victory, but earning a million bucks every time someone takes the mound? It’s a great gig if you can get it.

What is it about baseball that keeps me reaching for the radio dial or wanting to check the box score? It’s twofold for me. I’ve been an Indians fan for nearly thirty years, and although they’ve only had two World Series appearances in that time, baseball still brings me hope. With a record of 93 wins and 69 losses, the Tribe played good baseball this year. Each time they took the field, anything was possible. Perhaps there would be a no-hitter, or Carlos Santana would hit a grand slam in the tenth inning. “Hope springs eternal in the human breast,” wrote Alexander Pope in 1734, perhaps foreshadowing the optimism of spring training each year.

Here’s the other draw for me. In a world of shifting values and ever-changing daily headlines, Tribe baseball is a constant. 

When everything around us is spinning at warp speed, we reach for constancy. The A & W will close in November, but opening day won’t be far away. Sixty Minutes will air in its entirety on Sunday nights, even if delayed by football. The sun will rise at dawn. Tulips will bloom and trees will bud. Hope will spring anew. “Play ball” will be heard at the corner of East Ninth and Carnegie once again.

Richard Nelson Bolles understands: “Change becomes stressful and overwhelming only when you’ve lost any sense of the constancy of your life. You need firm ground to stand on.” Give me a welcoming home, an enduring faith, loyal friends, a stack of good books, and Tribe baseball, and I’m ready to face the world.