Archive for February, 2005

Red Sox Top 10 Greatest Games.

Monday, February 28th, 2005

Up until now the Red Sox and history have always been linked with the word cursed. It’s a new ballgame now folks, as Red Sox fans everywhere can smile when looking back on history. Since we like to rate the greatest of everything, thanks to Letterman, here is one fan’s list for the top ten Red Sox games in history. Along with it is a challenge to anyone who was at more of these games than I was. I also admit this list might be bias, because I was at the top 6. Feel free to list your own top ten.

1. It is my feeling that game 4 of the ALCS in 2004 will go down in history, as the greatest Red Sox game ever played. From Roberts’s steal of second, to the dramatic home run by Ortiz at 1:22 A.M. The best part about it was that I was there to be a part of the whole memorable night.

2. October 1, 1967. The last game of the year, tied with the Twins, winner take all. Yaz goes 4 for 4. Longborg leads of the sixth with a bunt. Rico catches the last out, and there is pandemonium on the field. The only time in Red Sox history that the fans steal every base, all the number signs off the wall, and even dig up the mound. Once again the best part was being there in section 1.

3. Game 6 1975. Carlton Fisk, the leap, Bernie Carbo the swing before, Dwight Evans, and “the catch” John Kiley playing the Hallelujah Chorus, as I walked out of the park.

4. This is where the heartbreak starts, the next three are each excruciating, and all have NY. They can go in any order, but here is how I place the degree of pain. Game 6 1986 Shea Stadium. As I sat in the top of left field I took out my camera with 2 outs in the last of the tenth. I took pictures where the scoreboard flashed “The NY Mets congratulate the Boston Red Sox 1986 World Champions.” I took a bottle of champagne with me, and didn’t open it up until last October.

5. Bucky ******* Dent. Sitting in the bleachers that day, I had a great view of the little pop up that broke our hearts. Then there was the last little pop up that Yaz hit to Nettles. If only Piniella had missed Remy’s hit in the sun.

6. Game 7 2003 ALCS, in what has been called the greatest game ever played in Yankee Stadium, at least by Yankee fans. I got to listen to 55,000 people chanting “1918″ again.

7. Game 5 of the ALCS with NY last fall. How can the Red Sox have 3 passed balls in one inning and not give up any runs.

8. Game 5 of the 1986 ALCS. Dave Henderson, from goat to hero in one swing. When they were one strike away from defeat

9. Game 7 1912. Sports Illustrated called this game the greatest 7th game ever played, but it only ranks 8th on this list. Really it was the 8th game anyway. Fred Snodgrass, Fred Merkle, Chief Myers. NY has a 1 run lead in the 10th inning, but Boston comes back because NY makes blunders in the field. Sure sounds familiar to a game 74 years later, only the result is different. Smoky Joe Wood wins his 3rd World Series game, after winning 34 in the regular season, not a bad year. He should even be in the Hall of Fame.

10. Game 7 1946. More Sox heartbreak. If only Dom didn’t get hurt, Pesky would have never held the ball.

That is my top ten. I left out many great games. Let me know if you think these deserve to be the best or would you change some of them. Game 5 1999 Cleveland. Pedro risks his career and pitches 6 hitless innings of relief to clinch this series.

Maybe the Bloody Sox game 6 with NY last year deserves to make the list. Or games 1,3,4, 5 of the ALDS with Oakland in 2003 should make the list. Game 1 with Cleveland in 1995 ended at 3 A.M. Then there were the last 2 games of 1949 when all Boston needed was to win one in NY. Or who could forget the Saturday game, number 161 with Minnesota in 1967. Maybe even the last game of 2004 ALDS with the Angels deserves to be noted.

I am the The Fan’s Commish,

But still a Red Sox fan at heart…

Hope Springs Eternal

Sunday, February 27th, 2005

The quote from George Steinbrenner about the agent Arn Tellem sounds like the pot calling the kettle a certain color. “I just don’t think he is a good man.” That is what King George said. Considering that Tellem represents Matsui, Giambi, and Mussina, that must mean the Yankees have given Arn close to $25M if he gets 10% of those lofty Yankee salaries. He probably gets more from NY than 50% of the teams pay in salary. The reason that baseball needs competitive balance is because the Yankees can just keep making bad judgment in talent, and continue to throw it away and spend more. Each time they make a mistake, like Contreras and waste $32M they just spend more like Loaiza, or Vazquez, and just pay their salaries for other teams while trying to acquire better talent again. There are 25 players per team and 30 teams, that equals 750 ML ballplayers. Each team should get 1/30 of the best talent in the game. When you try to evaluate talent, usually the one who makes the most, is the best player. When Babe Ruth made $80,000 in 1930, he did have a better year than the president, and was right to say he deserved to make more. When Ted Williams became the first $100,000 player, he was the best hitter in the game. In 2004 the average salary on the Yankees was$6.38 million. For all of baseball the average was $2.31 million. This stat probably will be further apart in 2005, if you count NY giving Arizona $9 million, and paying for their other poor mistakes in judgment. Every other team has fiscal restraints regarding total salary amounts, but NY continues to flaunt the system. All the other 29 teams have to agree that NY spends more then everyone else. When I sent letters to all 29 MLB owners, asking them to sign this petition.

I didn’t think they would sign it, but I did think they would agree that George does not play fair. I received responses from 6 teams, including this from the GM of Toronto:

I am sympathetic to the fact that the present revenue sharing formula and luxury tax has not produced the competitive balance that is necessary for all teams to have a fair chance at winning. Either the formula has to change or some form of cost-certainty must take place in order to achieve that goal. You can be assured that I will continue to strive for this in the hope to correct some of the outstanding problems of the game.

I also heard from San Diego:

The padres are typically perceived as a “small market team” and accordingly, have been clear about the need to inject some financial sensibility into the industry.

Baseball needs to join together with all teams having an equal chance of winning. The Blue Ribbon Report, that has to be the Crusade of baseball. All teams must have a chance at least in Spring training:

One of baseball’s oldest and cherished notions is that hope springs eternal, and that every club is a contender at least in spring training. If a club’s season ended in futility, the fans’ rallying cry was always, “Wait till next year,” because a new season always brought renewed hope. The realization that fans may now feel defeated before the first game in a majority of MLB communities is a cause for grave concern.

The Blue Ribbon Report 7/1/2000

If a club’s season ended in futility, the fans’ rallying cry was always, “Wait till next year,” because a new season always brought renewed hope. The realization that fans may now feel defeated before the first game in a majority of MLB communities is a cause for grave concern. America needs to make a statement of how they feel Opening Day this year. Each time the Yankees go into a park for the first time in 2005, in the top of the first inning all the fans should turn their backs until 3 outs are made. Then the home scoreboard will flash the difference between what the home team and the Yankees salaries are. Then when NY takes the field for the bottom of the first, fans should shower the field with monopoly money. The reason being George does not care about money, it is all just monopoly money to him, a commodity to acquire a baseball player. The only way to fix this system is to have a salary cap like the NFL. Then everyone chants, “Hope springs eternal!”

The Fan’s Commish

Congratulations, Jerry Coleman

Wednesday, February 23rd, 2005

The news just out that Jerry Coleman will be this year’s recipient of the Ford C. Frick Award beating out nine other finalists for the prize honoring baseball broadcasters –is so well deserved. My connection to Jerry goes back to 1975 when I was researching and interviewing for my first book - - A BASEBALL CENTURY - the 100th anniversary tribute to the National League.

I met Coleman in San Diego and did a very in depth interview with the charming baseball lifer. I sat in the stands with him and, it was there that he suggested that someone, me, do a book on baseball in New York City in the 1940s and 1950s, what he called “the last golden age.”

The book is now out in its fourth life, and I have Jerry Coleman to thank for the idea.

Hall of Famer Frankie Frisch thought so much of Jerry Coleman he claimed the handsome Californian would one day join him in Cooperstown. Injuries and two different tours of military duty denied Coleman that honor. But he ranks in the top echelon of infielders ever to wear pinstripes.

Gerald Francis Coleman was born on September 14, 1924 in San Jose California. Baseball was his way of life all through his growing up years. In 1942, Coleman was signed by the Yankees and sent to Class D Pony League, the Wellsville Yankees. World War II interrupted his budding career. He flew 57 bombing missions in the Solomon Islands.

“Spring training of 1948,” Coleman said, “I was in Florida trying to make the Yankees. I was the last man cut. I played for the Newark Bears in the International League and came up to the Yankees at the end of the season. I didn’t even think I would be brought up. I’d had a poor season at Newark.

“My first major league game was April 20, 1949. We were playing the Senators. The first batter hit a ground ball to me and it went right through my legs. The next guy up was Sherry Robertson. He hit a one hop shot at me. I caught it, turned it into a double play and the day was saved.

“The way we were indoctrinated. The Yankees were not our team, they were our religion. That was what we lived for. It wasn’t money then, it was winning or losing. If you came in second place, you lost. It was the glory of winning and the ring.”

An All Star in 1950 and that year’s World Series MVP, Coleman experienced the glory of being on six Yankee pennant winning teams and batting .275 in half a dozen World Series.

The biggest hit of his career was on October 2, 1949, the last day of the season, Yankees versus Red Sox. The winner would be the American League pennant winner. Going into the eighth inning, the Yankees clung to a 1-0 lead. A four run eighth inning put the game away for the Yankees - the key hit was Coleman’s bases loaded single.

The sure-handed Coleman was the regular second baseman from his rookie season in 1949 when he led AL second basemen in fielding through 1951. His 137 double plays in 1950 set a Yankee record for second basemen.

When the Korean War broke out, the gentlemanly Coleman went back into military service and missed 1952 and 1953 baseball seasons. He flew 120 missions and won two distinguished flying crosses.

Jerry Coleman played nine seasons for the Yankees, was in 723 games and had a .263 career average. This true American hero, who gave some of the best years of his life in service of his country, could have had much grander career stats had it not been for military service in two wars.

He is a class act all the way.

HF

Harvey Frommer is the author of 34 sports books, including the classics: “New York City Baseball,” “Shoeless Joe and Ragtime Baseball,” “Rickey and Robinson: The Men Who Broke Baseball’s Color Line,” “The New York Yankee Encyclopedia,” “A Yankee Century: A Celebration of the First Hundred Years of Baseball’s Greatest Team,” and the updated and revised 2005 edition of “Red Sox Vs. Yankees: The Great Rivalry” (with Frederic J. Frommer). Frommer sports books are available - discounted and autographed - direct from the author.

Juiced

Tuesday, February 22nd, 2005

The old expression “where there is smoke there is fire” may be the applicable wisdom as regards: “Juiced: Wild Times, Rampant ‘Roids, Smash Hits, and How Baseball Got Big” by Jose Canseco (ReganBooks / HarperCollins, $25.95, 304 pages). If nothing else, the book’s title is one of the more eye catching ones of recent years. Claims and charges and carping commentary characterize Canseco’s tome.

Dubbing himself the “Godfather of steroids in baseball,” the former baseball star says: “I single-handedly changed the game of baseball by introducing them (steroids) into the game.

“By the time my 8-year-old daughter, Josie, has graduated from high school, a majority of all professional athletes — in all sports — will be taking steroids. And believe it or not, that’s good news.

“I have no doubt whatsoever that intelligent, informed use of steroids, combined with Human Growth Hormone, will one day be so accepted that everybody will be doing it. Steroid use will be more common than Botox is now. Every baseball player and pro athlete will be using at least low levels of steroids. As a result, baseball and other sports will be more exciting and more entertaining.

“Are players the only ones to blame when Donald Fehr and the other bosses of the Major League Baseball Players Association fought for years to make sure players wouldn’t be tested for steroids?”

He wrote, adding: “Fehr had to know the truth.

“There was a huge double standard in baseball, and white athletes like Mark McGwire, Cal Ripken Jr. and Brady Anderson were protected and coddled in a way that an outspoken Latino like me never would be.

Canseco the Cuban was left out in the cold, where racism and double standards rule.”

Canseco aims a lot of his venom at his former Oakland teammate Jason Giambi who got bigger and bigger. “Giambi had the most obvious steroid physique I’ve ever seen in my life. He was so bloated, it was unbelievable. There was no definition to his body at all. You could see the retention of liquids, especially in his neck and face.”

You pays your money and you takes your choice. There are wild charges in “Juiced.” But the book has much food for thought and some of the things it has to say cannot be dismissed or ignored.

On a more inspirational and uplifting note there is “The Boys of Winter” by Wayne Coffey (Crown, $23.95, 272 pages), a celebration, a flash back a quarter century to the “Miracle on Ice” - the triumph of the USA hockey team over the favored Soviets. Terrific reading!

HIGHLY NOTABLE: “Grand Old Game of Baseball” by Joseph Wallace (Abrams, 744 pages, $29.95) - the kind of book to occupy a place of prominence on your coffee table - facts and fascinating illustrations culled from the archives of the BB Hall of Fame.

From the same publisher “101 Reasons to Love the Yankees” and “101 Reasons to Love the Red Sox“. Both priced at a hefty $22.50 and a skimpy 122 pages. The former, written by Ron Green, Jr., and the latter by his brother David.

Gimmicky tomes but worthwhile browsing, both books are heavy on illustration and strangely familiar content. “Clubhouse Lawyer” by Frederick J. Day (iuniverse, $29.95, 484 pages) is a highly insightful book into Law and the world of sports. The author is a lawyer and a highly knowledgeable sports fan - he knows his stuff in both areas and serves up telling commentary on many a legal battle.

The American Indian Integration of Baseball” by Joseph Oxendine (University of Nebraska Press, $34.95, 328 pages) is a bit over-priced but a highly readable and well researched account of the presence of American Indians on pro baseball fields from the time of Louis Sockalexis in 1897.

If you want to know how your favorite team got its nickname - and other interesting things about sports franchises - pick up a copy of “Yankees to Fighting Irish” by Michael Leo Donovan (Taylor, $14.95, 192 pages, paper). As the author notes: “This book exists because no nickname is an accident. And every nickname has a story.” Donovan tells the stories well.

BOOKENDS: “Surf Like a Girl” by Rebecca Heller (Three Rivers Press) is a slim paperback but has the info needed for surfing so you don’t look like a schlep in the water or on the beach.” Go for it if this sport is your thing.

HF

Harvey Frommer is the author of 34 sports books, including the classics: “New York City Baseball,” “Shoeless Joe and Ragtime Baseball,” “Rickey and Robinson: The Men Who Broke Baseball’s Color Line,” “The New York Yankee Encyclopedia,” “A Yankee Century: A Celebration of the First Hundred Years of Baseball’s Greatest Team,” and the updated and revised 2005 edition of “Red Sox Vs. Yankees: The Great Rivalry” (with Frederic J. Frommer). Frommer sports books are available - discounted and autographed - direct from the author.

Ring Ado

Sunday, February 20th, 2005

Scarcely had the confetti settled in Boston last October when the schedule for 2005 was released, and we Sox fans learned that our World Champions were to open their season against the Yankees. Self-satisfied grins spread across millions of faces (mine included) as we thought about how it would look and feel to see the banner raised proclaiming the Sox to be the Champions in the presence of our dearest enemies. The Banner would flutter in the stiff, cold April breeze, and the players — those who have not been dismissed to other teams around the country and around the globe — would jog out onto the field amidst a deafening roar of fan-gratitude, and would each receive his ring.

Now we find that this might not happen at all.

Of course the Sox will commemorate the World Series win at the home opener. The banner will be raised, and the team will be honored. But rumors have started to swirl to the effect that the ring presentation might be deferred to a later date, and might not necessarily be presented at a baseball game.

Dr. Charles Steinberg, Executive V.P. in charge of Public Affairs for the Red Sox, has mused that the rings might be presented in a more private setting — perhaps an event at the Fleet Center (home of the Bruins and Celtics), or maybe even at a hotel ballroom, as “a fundraiser.” I assume the public could attend this sort of thing by making a certain donation to a worthy charity — probably the Jimmy Fund, or the Red Sox Foundation.

These speculative sentences has hardly been finished before a towering storm out outrage erupted from the citizens of the Red Sox Nation. By the 11th of April, we will have waited four and a half months, on top of more than eight decades, to see this ceremony performed before our eyes. Now to be told that, not only might we not see the rings presented before the reluctant spectators in the visitors’ dugout, we might have to pay extra to see it happen. Extra, on top of the generations of frustrated hopes and seasons that ended in anger and tears. Extra, on top of the increasingly unaffordable tickets to Fenway, on top of the travel and lodging expenses we out-of-towners must pony up. Are we to be told that merely being paying fans wasn’t enough, and that in order to be shown a glimpse of a gem-studded bauble being presented to a grinning millionaire, we’d have to lay down more money, which these days, few of us can spare?

Of course, this brings up the question: Why is it so important to us to see this happen on Opening Day? Why is it so important to us at all? The rings are, after all, just gem-studded baubles, the recipients just grinning millionaires, paid outrageous sums to play a game. Why is it deemed an insult to suggest that we might turn some of this enthusiasm to good use by donating to charity in order to see the ring presentation?

The first thing to get out of the way is the matter of charity. Sox fans do not have to be goaded or lured into giving to charity. The WEEI Radiothon, held each summer to raise money for the Jimmy Fund has raised millions of dollars in the last few years. The Red Sox Foundation is the recipient of more fan generosity. Fans donate to charities backed by individual players. So why, I have to ask, is it necessary from the Red Sox high muckymucks to squeeze even more charity out of the fans by using the ring presentation as bait? Such an idea devalues the rings and the accomplishment they represent. It devalues the fans’ loyalty. It even devalues the charities that stand to benefit, as if no one would support them without seeing the rings as a reward.

There are other reasons we fans have a right to see that ceremony. For one thing, though we must pay, one way or another, to see the games, they are public events. In Boston, and among all who adhere to the Red Sox, the team might as well be in the public domain. Though most of us do not own even a penny’s worth of stock in the team, the Red Sox are the emotional property of every fan. It is not an exaggeration to say that generations have lived and died with the team’s fortunes. I know people who are still anguished about Slaughter’s Mad Dash, and about the crushing end of the 1949 season. People still mourn the shocking and untimely death of Harry Agganis. So many people think of Tony Conigliaro and wonder what might have been. And if the Sox had only had the wisdom to hang onto Fisk and Lynn

Through all of this – through wars and bad trades, injuries, flukey plays (Piniella’s lucky stab, Dent’s drifting pop-up, Stanley’s wild pitch, Wake’s flat knuckler to Boone), we have not even for a fraction of a second doubted our loyalty to the team. We could no more give up on them than give up on our own dreams, whatever they may be. So many people, sifting through the wreckage of a lost season, have squared their shoulders and said, “NEXT year. NEXT year they’ll do better.”

Next Year has finally come, and we have already paid, in money and in loyalty, more than enough to be granted permission to see that ring presentation.

Do we need to see the rings presented in the presence of the Yankees? Many would answer this with a resounding YES! How many times have we had to endure the mockery of the “Nineteen-eighteen!” chant? How many times have we been called losers, chumps, fools for believing in the team that gave us only heartbreak, while the Yankees went on to compile twenty-six World Series wins? How many times have we had Babe Ruth shoved in our faces? How many times has that team slapped victory out of our hands, and then let us know about it again and again and AGAIN?

I don’t consider myself to be a spiteful person, but I was really looking forward to the Opening Day ceremony. The schedule made up probably two years ago has, with splendid irony, put that team on our field on our Opening Day as World Champions, and we should not turn up our noses at such a generous gift from the baseball gods. Had the tables been turned last fall – had, say, Dave Roberts not safely stolen second, or had Rivera nabbed the ball Mueller hit and turned it into a double play – or if he had simply induced three easy infield pop-ups to end the game and the Sox’s dreams – do we for a moment believe that the Yankees would not rub it in, when the Sox open the season in the Bronx on April 3rd?

OF COURSE they’d rub it in. They’ve been rubbing it in for over eighty years. Not that we should emulate them in this respect, but just this once – just this once! – let them be forced by etiquette to stand and applaud for my team.

If an Opening Day presentation is somehow impossible – if the rings aren’t ready that day (though the manufacturer has publicly assured the team that the rings will be ready whenever they are needed, and if Opening Day is the day, the rings – all 500 of them – will be there), then the presentation must still take place at a packed Fenway. It has to be done in front of the bleacher bums, the families in the grandstand seats, season-ticket holders in the box seats and corporate swells in the .406 Club. If it can’t be done in front of the Yankees, then it doesn’t matter who the visiting team is. Minnesota, Oakland, Kansas City, the Pirates – it doesn’t matter. The fans are the ones that matter.

How many times have we heard the players assert that the fans deserved the win, as a reward for years of undying support? If the fans deserved the win as much as the players, then don’t we deserve the rings as well? I don’t mean that we need material reward (though lower ticket prices would be nice); all we want is to see our baseball heroes receive the symbol of their amazing accomplishment, and we need to see it in the place where it happened – Fenway Park, the shrine of our faith. We need to see it, to feel it again, to cheer it again, to remember how it felt on the Night of the Blood-Red Moon, when Foulke fielded that little one-hopper, and so carefully tossed the ball to Mientkiewicz, and eighty-six years of drought vanished in a flood of happiness. We would look at our seatmates in the park or at home, and tell each other, for the first time or the hundredth time, where we were when they won, and what we felt, and what we did, and with whom we shared it.

That’s what the rings are about. They aren’t about what the Yankees didn’t do. They aren’t about the charity we give anyway. They are about perseverance against crushing odds. They are about loyalty that may be shaken but never broken. They are about forgiveness, and faith, and the love between a team and its fans.

POSTSCRIPT: February 24th

I don’t know if the Sox brass were kind of startled (and a little alarmed) by the eruption of outrage, or what, but today they have anounced that the rings will indeed be presented at the Home Opener. A gust of wind blowing in all directions from New England was widely believed to be a massive collective sigh of relief.

Annie

The Desert

Friday, February 18th, 2005

I feel like I’m crossing a desert. I have to cross a dark, cold desert to get to the oasis called Spring Training. In that oasis are palm trees with clusters of baseballs hanging from them like dates.

There are little streams and pools here and there in The Desert, long before the oasis is in sight. Winter meetings, free agent signings, Hall of Fame voting. These will keep you going, giving you just enough strength to reach the next pool, until finally you reach the oasis, its green fields surrounded by palms that rustle in the warm February breeze. Random springs of news slake the fans’ thirst for a little while. News, even about a team you don’t follow, or a player you dislike, bring you back in touch with The Game – but it’s just a mirage, ephemeral and insubstantial. What you want most of all in the world is a game, a fresh game. Even a sloppy, high-scoring, badly-pitched game between minor-league teams would do, when all you can find to watch is basketball and hockey. A game to watch or hear, a game to keep score, for the simple pleasure of writing “6-3” or “F-8” or even “E-4.”

The Desert is crossed slowly, one day at a time, one crawling step at a time. Winter Meetings sustain us for a few days; arbitration and tendering deadlines give us strength enough to crawl onward. Around us, snow piles up and is plowed away; ice accumulates and then melts; the sun reaches its lowest point in the sky, the shortest day and longest night, and then ever so slowly the days lengthen. At the end of December we pin a new calendar to the wall and mark off another day – forty-five days till Spring Training.

By the time the free-agent signing deadline has come in January, we can see the shimmering, faint outline of the oasis on the horizon. But the intervening weeks are long, and cold, and dark, and desolate. We spend time in contemplation, wondering, while shivering through the night, what went wrong last year, and whether the changes since made will fix it. We think of who has left us – either with relief that they’re gone, or with sadness at their departure. We wonder if the newcomers will be any good. That’s all we can do: contemplate, wonder, wish and hope.

So the tinsel and balsam needles are vacuumed out of the living room carpet; glass balls and beaded garlands are wrapped in tissue and packed away; New Year’s confetti is swept out of the corners, and we sigh and consider January, the longest, coldest, darkest month of the year. It’s a month of nine-hour days, of below-zero mornings, of frosted windows, jumper cables, dry gas, oil bills… Is it any wonder we look for any scrap of news to take our minds off the salt-stained roads, walled in with sand-blackened snowbanks? Is it any wonder we long for the sight of warm green fields, striped with evening shadows, growing brighter under the lights as the soft summer evening deepens? The thirst for baseball grows more intense in these monotonous winter days.

The trees of the oasis are nearly close enough to touch, its waters close enough to smell on an otherwise ordinary gray Tuesday in New England. With fanfare, a truck pulls out of the Back Bay, headed for I-95 South, loaded with the tools of baseball, and the hopes of baseball-starved fans. This is the equipment truck, and its departure is the surest sign that the Desert is almost conquered.

A few days later, on a crystal clear February morning in Vermont, it’s -26°F by my back door. Deep, sheltered valleys up north reach -36°F, -39°F, -46°F. Thick ice and frost cloud the windows; backyard birds are puffed into pompoms as they gather at the feeders. It’s cold in the house, even as the furnace roars expensively in the cellar. Trees snap and split in the intense cold. Water pipes freeze. Cars die. It’s the coldest day yet, and it seems as if winter has come to stay.

But turn on the TV – feast your eyes. There are young men sitting in circles on soft, sunlit grass, and laughing as they stretch. There are men hitting baseballs, catching, throwing, fielding, running. In shorts and t-shirts. Green trees rustle in the breeze behind the outfield walls. Flowers bloom in multicolored cascades behind the general manager and the former free agent, now joined for better or worse by a mutually pleasing contract extension, as they give a press conference in front of the clubhouse.

It’s Spring Training. Winter is over! The Desert has once again been crossed.

I drink in the scenes from Florida and Arizona, and feel the desolation of The Desert fading away. It’s still cold here, with more than a month to go until the vernal equinox, and more than a month after that before the leaves emerge. But the sights and sounds of baseball warm the true fan’s soul, and make the last few weeks of winter go down a lot more easily.

Spring Training and its little pleasures and dramas fill a spot in our hearts left empty since October. What rookie phenom comes out of almost nowhere and pitches his way into the rotation? What veteran utility player, back for the league minimum and playing for pride, does so well that he’s tabbed as the starting third-baseman? What interim manager has the “interim” (or perhaps the “manager”) removed from his title? Who catches his spikes during infield drills and has to have his knee sewn back together? Most of the events are sweetly routine; Favorite pitchers pitch well, and favorite hitters hit. Rookies prospects show promise but need more polish. The Red Sox and Twins vie for the Mayor’s Cup. Jerry Remy cracks jokes about the traffic lights in Fort Myers.

For the first few days, just the sight of the ballplayers going about their routine practices is enough, but soon, with my immediate thirst quenched, I begin to want richer fare. I want a game.

Finally – a Saturday afternoon, on the first weekend in March. Sunlight is streaming in the south windows, icicles dripping a steady stream from the eaves. The snowbanks are deep, but their faces wear a glassy sheen that crumbles away at a touch. Bare spots appear in the driveway, and cars splash through the meltwater that runs in broad, rippled ribbons across the road. The air smells rich and earthy, filled with the scents of wet tree bark and mud.

I drop the blinds against the worst of the glare, pour a drink, assemble a snack – popcorn, peanuts, cheese and pepperoni, a hot dog – and turn on the TV.

A baseball game – the first televised game in nearly five months! It doesn’t matter that it’s not at Fenway, that instead of the Citgo sign and the Prudential Building, there’s a stand of palm trees beyond the outfield wall. I try to keep score; most of the starting lineup is familiar, and so is the starting pitcher, but he’s gone by the third inning, and few position players last past the fifth. The scoresheet becomes a mess as players are replaced and switch positions. I never heard of the guy they put in at second base in the 6th and move to third in the 8th…

But it’s baseball.

The sun goes down at five-forty-five, and it’s cold. Orion stands tilted over the western mountains, and the snow gets hard and crusty as the temperature falls below freezing…

It doesn’t matter that it’s cold tonight, that snow is forecast for tomorrow, that Mud Season still awaits. None of that matters. I’ve crossed out of The Desert and into the green grass of a well-watered valley. I saw a baseball game! Winter is over.

Annie


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