I am surprised that I have made it this far without missing
baseball, but I realize now that probably that was just denial.
Things were going well…I was photographing Cactus League
games in Arizona, writing stories, chatting with players, fellow photographers
and fans. I was living the baseball-associated life that started nearly 70
years ago in my front yard in Endicott, N.Y.
On March 12, I got a text from the Arizona Diamondbacks that
they were rained out. Spring training games are not played in the rain. No big
deal, there would be a game tomorrow.
But, baseball-wise there was no tomorrow. At four P.M. Eastern time, just when the
D’backs game had been scheduled to start, spring training was canceled by Major
League Baseball.
So, that was that. Spring
training was over, and the season was postponed. Along with it went minor
league baseball, college baseball, high school baseball, Little League…baseball
itself was on extended hold.
I pretty much dismissed that as the way it should be…health
above all else.
Now that it has continued into July, I am able to
reflect. Much of what we have lost in
society is below the surface a bit. The
domino effect of deprivation extends deep into our culture. What I have lost
does not compare to the tragedy hundreds of thousands of people have suffered,
so this lament is merely a personal observation that I share in common with
many of those in the “baseball niche” of society.
The thing about baseball is that it tends to be there. It
tends to be the constant in our lives. It is the conversation starter, (How
‘bout those Yankees?) the argument thesis (Willie, Mickey or the Duke?), the
rallying cry (Let’s go, Mets!).
It is the go-to for an evening out, the TV remote’s target, the
crossword clue (Alou and Ott are favorites of the New York Times).
It is the “old North Side ball orchard.” It is the city
park. It is the neighborhood. It is the backyard. It is the ambience at NBT
Bank Stadium, at Falcon Park, at Doubleday Field, at Phil Winters Field...at
every park in every town. It is unique to each and the same for all.
A few days ago, the Syracuse Mets hosted a CNY Food Bank
giveaway…some 1,000 cars snaked their way through the parking lot in line for boxes of much needed food. I
was on hand to photograph the event, part of a gallery of my photos of good
works being done during the pandemic. It was a line reminiscent of fans streaming into the parking
lot for a July ballgame, but inside, the ball park was empty and silent.
I made my way inside, walked along the silent concourse, now
filled with construction material instead of fans. The results of current park
improvements are evident. The field was green, but dry, daily manicuring
currently unnecessary during this extended off-season.
The schedule said it was the All-Star break, three days for
the best of AAA baseball to compete while the rest relaxed with three off days.
It would have been an empty stadium anyway, but only for a few days.
I sat in a new grandstand seat to soak in the silence. I
realized that even with the empty field, the stillness of the air, the complete
silence, there was an energy that only a ballpark can hold.
I strayed into the part of my mind where I go to seek
poetry. That is where the other side of the game resides, the part that it is
not on the field. That is where I am reminded that I miss the essence of the
game more than the game itself.
I miss the three mile drive to NBT Bank Stadium, and the
brief conversation with the people in charge of the parking lot. I miss
unloading my photo gear before being wanded by the security people. I miss the
ticket takers and office workers as I enter. I miss chatting with fans on the
elevator ride to the top floor and I miss the ambiance of the press box. I miss
the friends I have made there and the conversations on subjects far beyond the
action on the field.
I miss sitting in the broadcast booth, headphones in place,
spending one (unforeseen) summer in unfamiliar territory, sitting with two actual
professional broadcasters and a former major league pitcher, and being allowed
to talk on air about baseball from a chair previously occupied by two friends
who began their rise to the major leagues there.
I miss that on my birthday (today as it happens) the press
box manager would tell me in a few seconds, how many days old I was.
I miss standing on the field, ostensibly talking about grass
and dirt and wiffle ball with the head groundskeeper, but really sharing the
bond that brings us to baseball, an intangible affection for what takes place
on that grass, and how we are part of it.
I miss chatting with my fellow photographers as our eyes
dart around the field looking for the next great shot.
I miss the pregame ceremony and the Mets general manager
selling the game he loves and inspiring the crowd, large or small, to love it
as well.
I miss the “front office” staff that treats me so well, a
staff that makes baseball happen here, working from morning until late in the cold
spring and hot summer nights, and the young women and men who orchestrate the
between-innings on-field games that thrill the youngsters and woo them into
becoming the next generation of fans. I miss high-fiving young men, mute and
unrecognizable in their guise as team mascots.
I miss being asked by the official scorer what I thought of
a play, and the sense that my opinion may have worked its way into the
statistical fabric of the game, and I miss being dazzled by the technical
genius of the people in the computer center who bring life to the “big board”
that chronicles the on-field action.
I miss the media people whose use of cameras and computers
takes the game to the fans who follow the team even when they are not at the
ballpark.
I miss chatting between innings with the friends I have made
among ushers and security people and I miss the fans who have become friends,
an inning or so at a time, and I miss sitting with a friend of over 50 years,
the first person I met at Syracuse University, talking around the game
about our common life-bonds, him chiding me for missing a potentially great
photo because I was explaining the infield fly rule.
The empty ballpark may lack the sounds of bat on ball, of
leather on leather, of vendors’ cries, of fans’ cheers, but it holds for me the
memories of seasons past and those yet to come.
The optimist in me believes that this is merely a greatly
extended off-season, a time when we reflect on the past season, and more
important, look forward to the coming one. For those of us with the Syracuse
Mets, and those of who root for the “other guys,” and those of us who are
simply fans of the game, we suffer the silence of an empty ballpark.
But, if
all goes as we hope, this particular off-season will only extend until mid-February,
2021, when, at long last, the traditional first day of baseball arrives, and pitchers
and catchers report.