My daddy always told me that baseball was America’s sport, because it doesn’t matter where you are from, how tall or short you are, or what race you are; if you have heart and talent, you can be a baseball player. He could always see great things in baseball and like Walt Whitman he would say, “It’s our game, the American game.”
During our July visit with our son Stephen’s family, we watched the Braves on the big screen tv as they swept our beloved Cardinals night after night. Our ten year old grandson Wyatt is in with both feet as a fan and as a player. He often sleeps with his baseball glove as he relives a game he’s watched or a game he’s played.
Nightly, we gathered as a family and listened to Chip Carey who is a third generation announcer, play by play man for the Braves. As we watched, Granpa asked Wyatt who his favorite player was and without hesitation, he replied, Guillermo Heredia. A Cuban national, Heredia has been around for a while playing for many teams; I think Wyatt likes him because he sees him being a cheerleader, an encourager in the dugout. His daddy who is his baseball coach has taught him the importance of that, encouraging his teammates.
Granpa told Wyatt that when he was a little boy growing up in Kentucky, he would sit with his family rooting for the Cardinals just like Wyatt pulls for the Braves. They didn’t have a tv so they would gather around an old, large box radio in the living room and listen to Chip Carey’s grandfather, Harry Carey do the play by play.
As the Braves hot bats hit yet another home run, we cheered and Granpa told him that when the Cards got a hit, Harry Carey would always dramatically pause. The whole family would listen breathlessly for: “Holy Cow. It might be…it could be… it IS! A home run! Holy cow!”
Even though they couldn’t see the action, the whole family felt like they were there at the ballpark. Harry Carey was a storyteller and he could make his listeners feel like they were sitting in the stands, smelling the popcorn, listening as the ball hit the glove.
Wyatt laughed caught up in his Granpa’s story: “Who was your favorite player, Granpa?” Alan continued, “Well, if the manager started walking to the pitcher’s mound, Harry Carey would say, “Wait a minute, Holy Cow, there’s activity in the bullpen!” Fans would wait to hear which relief pitcher would emerge to finish the game.
When his Uncle Wallace, who was like his grandfather, would ask him, “Who is your favorite player, Alan,” he would answer, “Activity, Uncle Wallace. Activity in the bullpen.”
Wyatt laughed a big laugh and said, “Granpa, you thought ‘Activity in the Bull Pen’ was a baseball player? Oh, my gosh!” And then, after a second, “Holy Cow, Granpa. Holy Cow!”
As we all laughed, there was a sweet togetherness in the living room which mirrored the sweetness in that living room long ago, grandfather’s and fathers handing down family traditions.
My Dad loved talking about baseball being a metaphor of life. Afterall, we all suffer and understand the terrible demoralizing agony of defeat and continually hope for the ecstasy of triumph; and honestly, whether we acknowledge it or not, we have activity of some sort in the bullpen of our life.
The question has to be, “How long are we going to stay in that bullpen warming up or nursing the wounds of this life.”
Digging Life 