There’s no day like Opening Day!
By Bob Ford Special to
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Opening Day is the most important, unimportant day in life.
Baseball is America’s game. It represents our history, struggles and successes.
To those lucky to go to a home opener, it reminds you of what’s right with this country.
Life can slap you around but once spring arrives you have a refuge. I fell in love at an early age. Little League Baseball was huge in St. Joseph. I struck out more times than I got a hit.
It was a social event that allowed boys to develop confidence and discipline while playing a competitive game all under the direction of director Julius Hochman. We gathered on the field off the parkway just up from Corby Pond. Most years I either played for the Lovers Lane Meats or Stevens Hats.
I always had a good arm so I pitched and played first. I wanted to continue to play as I got older but alas, it turned out I couldn’t hit a breaking ball.
I grew up a Cardinals fan, glued to my transistor radio listening to Harry Caray and Jack Buck weave their way through life and the game. They talked my language, “why wouldn’t you bunt him over … can he just throw a strike … and of course it could be, it might be, it is … a home run!”
My mother would say she knew when the Cardinals were on the West Coast because I would go to bed without an argument. Sneaking my transistor upstairs, then pulling the covers over my head, I was set.
One night, it was 1-1, legendary pitcher Bob Gibson matched up against Don Drysdale. It was the bottom of the 10th and both starting pitchers were still in. What a game it was. Suddenly, on came the lights, blanket ripped away and mother declared, “it’s after midnight and you have school in the morning!” She confiscated my radio as I pleaded my case but no luck. Lights off, door closed and I was fuming! The last thing on my mind was going to sleep.
Then the door cracked open, the hall light poured in, mother poked her head in, “it’s extra innings and both starters are still pitching?” She sat on the edge of my bed and we listened to the end of the game together. That night, my mother was a hero, the Cards won and I no doubt had sweet baseball dreams.
The game has been instrumental in leading the way for needed cultural changes.
“Helping America move from segregation to assimilation was slow and continues to be difficult but it was baseball that led the way,” so says Bob Kendrick President of the Negro League Baseball Museum.
During the Civil War, “Ball” was played with different rules in all sorts of locations. From a Yankees journal, “we were playing ball when all of a sudden the enemy attacked the outfield. All got back except one fellow who they captured, problem was, he had the ball.” Leads me to ask, did the Rebs attack just to get the ball?
Once the Civil War was over and regiments went home, teams and leagues were formed and rules were now fairly uniform.
A few of my high school buddies and I met each year wherever the All-Star game was being played. It was our annual reunion paying homage to the game, allowing us to check out different cities, parks and stay in each other’s lives. In the three day baseball fest you would see people that looked just like you, wearing their team’s gear, celebrating the game they love.
One of my favorite signs held high in Houston read, “Married Yesterday, Honeymoon Today, Need 2!”
Through the years, baseball has proven to be a standard in my life, a constant I could count on. There is a baseball god out there, I know, and here’s my proof.
For decades we split Royals season tickets. When not using them — as prices climbed and me not wanting to eat the four lower level seats — I would go to the park on game day and sell them in the parking lot, that’s not scalping since I owned the tickets. Then I’d buy a nose bleed and go in.
One evening up walked a group of people that were clearly “a fish out of water.” They were Mormons, looking a little lost and confused. I felt a calling, these 12 people needed an escort and it was to be me. Explaining that the family was on a historic trek and the only way 11-year-old Jacob would join them was if they attended a game of his favorite team, the Kansas City Royals.
The girls and ladies were in traditional dresses with the dad asking me most of the questions. Jacob and his brothers were casually dressed while the stoic grandfather in overalls and a straw hat emitted an attitude that said he’d like to be anywhere else.
I took control, got the group in and seated around our section. Jacob was beaming as the rest took it all in. My favorite usher was working the game and I told her what was going on. The Royals didn’t disappoint, here came dolls, key chains, signed baseballs and photographs for everyone. Then Slugger playfully appears, putting Jacob in a soft headlock all caught on the jumbotron. It was almost too much for the family … but then it happened.
Now I’ve been setting where Jacob was for 20-plus years. Only twice has a foul ball come over the 30ft vertical fence and gotten close enough to where I had a chance at it.
Johnny Damon was at the plate and wouldn’t you know it, here came a ball. It hit a seat then the concrete and landed softly in Jacob’s lap … the baseball Gods were no doubt smiling. I picked up the ball from Jacob, waved it in the air to a cheering Royals crowd, and gave it back to a boy that will remember this day at the “K” the rest of his life!
As the family left that evening the grandfather grabbed me, he couldn’t say anything, he didn’t have to.
The game brings out the best in people, Opening Day exemplifies what could be. The day is innocent, pure and magical, it takes you back to your childhood.
Everyone needs to attend that first game, the pomp, pride and hope of a new season. Don’t worry how the game turns out, that’s not the most important thing because no matter the outcome, your team can’t be mathematically eliminated … yet.
