Take Me (Sorta) Out to the Ballgame!

I may not have been to a major league park in several years, but the words “Batter Up!” do have more meaning to me than something having to do with baking a cake.

You see, I consider myself a non-baseball-playing, non-baseball-following, baseball rubbernecker who has always gotten caught up in the romantic mythology of the game.

I grew up in New Jersey in the late 1970s and early 1980s. It was the heyday of the Billy Martin-Reggie Jackson years for the New York Yankees. What New Jersey kid didn’t know about all the larger-than-life characters that came out of that team. Craig Nettles, Catfish Hunter, Thurman Munson, Lou Pinella — they were gods that walked the Earth … or rather, rounded the bases.

It helped that several of the Bronx Bombers also lived in my hometown. In fact, Thurman Munson lived just two blocks away, and I played with his daughters who were the same age. My dad — a Brooklyn Dodgers fan who hated the Yankees — took pleasure in noticing that if Mr. Munson mowed his lawn on a game day, the Yanks were sure to lose. Dad never tipped off his neighbor, thinking it was his contribution to the National League’s postseason hopes.

Like other kids, I got caught up in collecting baseball cards. I remember the feel of ripping open a brand new Topps package, looking for that square, flat, brittle piece of powdered, sugared chewing gum. The numbers and stats on the backs of each card didn’t mean so much to me, but I did start to get familiar with some of the players and the teams.

I remember having a Pete Rose card — who knew then that his trajectory would take such a dive; learning his “Charlie Hustle” nickname came in handy for later games of Trivial Pursuit. I had cards from players on teams that have since changed names, like the California Angels, or those which no longer exist, like the Montreal Expos.

There was no better recess fun in the spring than flipping your baseball cards. It was a way to be included on the playground because everyone did it. Learning how to hold a card flat between your thumb and middle finger and with just the right flick of the wrist, you’d add to your collection if you beat your flipping opponent.

Growing up didn’t mean leaving my periphery fandom behind. In my first working-world years, I had a job in public relations, and worked on a campaign for the New York State Lottery. They’d hired Whitey Ford as a spokesman, and after one public appearance we had the chance to eat dinner with Whitey at Mickey Mantle’s restaurant on Central Park South in New York. I couldn’t have been more star-struck when Mickey came over to chat a bit with his former teammate.

Baseball allegiances still define the family relationships. My dad the Mets fan and my Yankee-loving brother-in-law battle over who the kids will root for. My husband — who grew up in Europe and isn’t a fan of any team — stays out of the fray. Although there was the time before we were married when my then-fiancé and I took my dad to a Marlins spring training game. It was a way for dad to get to know the future son-in-law he wasn’t yet so crazy about. Dad "taught" him the game, and it helped cement them for the years ahead.

Actually, the last time I did visit a ballpark for a game was when we lived in Chicago. True Northsiders, we went for an afternoon Chicago Cubs game. Talk about a stadium rich with history! While we didn’t sit in the outfield bleachers or a private rooftop outside, it was still memorable. You know you’re in true baseball territory in a town that packs a stadium religiously on a weekday at 1:05 P.M.

The smells, the sounds, the feel of baseball history. No matter your level of investment, you can’t escape feeling awed by America’s pastime.