Summer’s long, steamy days fast approach, meaning only one thing: Baseball can temporarily resume its role as national pastime. NBA and NHL playoffs will have ended. College football will fade from public view until practices resume in August. College basketball won’t beckon our attention until October. That leaves “the boys of summer” – unless you’re big into NASCAR.
While baseball no longer reigns as my favorite sport, it has provided some of my m
ost vivid memories. Growing up in New Jersey, twice a season I enjoyed riding into New York City’s Bronx Borough and striding into the shadows of the historic “House that Ruth Built.” I would usually go with my father, a friend and his dad, spending a day consuming lukewarm hotdogs, peanuts and watered-down Cokes, while watching my heroes – Mickey, Yogi, Whitey and others – lead the guys in pinstripes to victory.
I’ll always remember the day I went to Yankee Stadium in 1961 with my Little League team. Mantle and Roger Maris were chasing Babe Ruth’s sacred homerun record, and we saw both “the Mick” and Rog slam homers. Ford was the winning pitcher, and Luis Arroyo came in to save the victory. Yankee nirvana!
In those days baseball stars were revered. We didn’t have investigative reporters or Internet rumors recounting the Yankees’ late-night hijinks. I never knew Mickey often patrolled centerfield nursing a killer hangover. No, major leaguers were golden boys, virtual gods to adoring young fellows like me who would never master hitting a round ball with a round object square.
Those Yanks probably weren’t better or worse than players reviled today for their misdeeds, but it was a simpler, perhaps more naïve time. We read only news that was fit to print – not news that wasn’t.
As a nation – and a sporting culture – we’ve lost our innocence. Not that we ever really had it. But we thought we did. And there’s something sad about that.
While baseball no longer reigns as my favorite sport, it has provided some of my m
ost vivid memories. Growing up in New Jersey, twice a season I enjoyed riding into New York City’s Bronx Borough and striding into the shadows of the historic “House that Ruth Built.” I would usually go with my father, a friend and his dad, spending a day consuming lukewarm hotdogs, peanuts and watered-down Cokes, while watching my heroes – Mickey, Yogi, Whitey and others – lead the guys in pinstripes to victory.I’ll always remember the day I went to Yankee Stadium in 1961 with my Little League team. Mantle and Roger Maris were chasing Babe Ruth’s sacred homerun record, and we saw both “the Mick” and Rog slam homers. Ford was the winning pitcher, and Luis Arroyo came in to save the victory. Yankee nirvana!
In those days baseball stars were revered. We didn’t have investigative reporters or Internet rumors recounting the Yankees’ late-night hijinks. I never knew Mickey often patrolled centerfield nursing a killer hangover. No, major leaguers were golden boys, virtual gods to adoring young fellows like me who would never master hitting a round ball with a round object square.
Those Yanks probably weren’t better or worse than players reviled today for their misdeeds, but it was a simpler, perhaps more naïve time. We read only news that was fit to print – not news that wasn’t.
As a nation – and a sporting culture – we’ve lost our innocence. Not that we ever really had it. But we thought we did. And there’s something sad about that.
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