Marty's Thoughts at the Airport Going (sigh...) Home

There’s an odd moment during the practices at Spring Training when the players move between drills. The players begin switching fields, and some players choose to cut through the gallery of fans instead of taking the long way around the outfield. At this time, everyone holds their breath and scrambles to get a picture of a player or secure an autograph (90% of the time, this request is brushed away with the empty promise of “after practice I’ll sign”). Everyone sitting in the bleachers at Fitch Park immediately rises upon hearing the clip-clop of spikes on the pavement, looking hopefully for the chance to be within feet of Derrek Lee or Aramis Ramirez as they slowly move between drills. Children immediately leave the comfort of their parents’ side and sprint to the source of the sound, hopeful that the big guys in blue will stop for a brief second and commemorate the experience by signing the kid’s baseball, souvenir bat, or whatever he’s holding in his hand.

Clip Clop, Clip Clop…

For that second, with the sun shining overhead and the freezing temperatures of Chicago left on the plane, the names Brian MacNamee or Victor Conte cease to exist. No one thinks about BALCO or HGH or any of the other damning acronyms. For that moment, everything is simple and everyone is twelve years old. The hopefulness and joy that envelop each person as they listen to the crack of the bat immediately returns them to games of home run derby played on the little league field every day of that summer before seventh grade. It is simply baseball, as your grandfather says it used to be.

Clip Clop, Clip Clop…

Of course, we know the game was never that simple. From the Black Sox to the struggles to integrate to the drug use of the 70s through today, it is obvious that baseball has always had a dark side. It wasn’t until the age of the omnipresent media that the average fan knew even a little about that dark side. Because of this, I’m sure these moments of pure baseball joy occurred on a far more regular basis for fans of past generations. Maybe they were so prevalent that they didn’t even notice these moments when they happened. But in a time when there seems to be a tag-team effort on the part of owners, players, media members and agents to destroy the last vestiges of purity and simplicity within the game, these flashes of brilliance that come with Spring Training become a far-too-rare gift to the modern fan. These instances cannot be replicated, even in baseball’s regular season. It’s comforting to know that these moments still exist.

Clip Clop, Clip Clop…

Inevitably, of course, the hopes of the Fitch Park faithful are dashed by the sight of a non-roster invitee like Bobby Scales or J.D. Closser strolling past the concession stand. One of the true stars of the game rarely, if ever, comes that close to the fans. The fan’s chance to make themselves part of the day’s simple perfection was thisclose, but reality dictates that they have to once again settle back into their roles as steadfast observers. Nonetheless, for that moment, time had stood still, and you get a sense of just how much people absolutely and rightly love this game. No matter what is done by those who try to destroy the game, from both inside and outside the foul lines, the game persists beyond their insidious influences. The game is eternal. To put it simply: there is nothing in any sport that can compare to the simple tranquility of baseball, and being at Spring Training this year has, at least for me, been a reminder of that perfection. The week simply embodied everything that makes the sport of baseball truly great: why I get sad when the season ends in October; why I sit through six months of winter, posting on message boards and dying for any ounce of information I can about the upcoming season; and, most importantly, why I make a point to get down here each year to experience, even for a short time, this serene setting. Above all things experienced this week, that simple basic truth will remain with me. Play ball.