There’s nothing like the sounds of baseball. Whether one is a player in the batter’s box, the outfield, or sitting in the stands or listening on the radio or internet . . . nothing compares to its sounds.
The sounds today conjure memories of my first mitt, the one my father bought for me at a Five and Dime in the early 1960s. It was too big for my hand, but that was okay. Having a mitt was a rite of passage, a step toward manhood. Sounds of the surrounding city while playing pickle with my elementary school buddies in the alley behind my house, and dodging cars during pick-up games in the city side streets . . . all remain.
I can say for certain there was NOTHING in the world like the crack of MY bat off a fastball.
I suspect those who complain about a slow game hardly ever played it. But if they did, maybe they just didn’t listen. The sounds of baseball, the anthem, the announcers, jeers, groans, hawkers, umpires, players, organ music and clapping and roars of the crowd are sounds I love.
The sounds of baseball are the sounds of my America.
Sometimes in the early morning dark before I’m deep in thought reading and writing, I’ll que up a recent MLB game just to have its soothing sounds in the background.
As I grow old and begin to question my eyesight and hearing, I hope after I hit the locker-room in my mind’s eye for the final time, I can tell Saint Peter about the sounds of my last game, the sounds of baseball.