The Midsummer Classic

And thus concludes another Midsummer Classic. It’s been a long time since I’ve really cared about baseball. I haven’t played the game in 18 years. My fandom consists of following the standings on ESPN.com without really watching the games or knowing the intricacies of the minor league prospects or who’s on the DL. I do, however, come alive when the playoffs hit, and I never miss a game in October. I still never wear a baseball team cap that’s not “my team” for some reason. So, why did I watch the All Star Game (an exhibition in the middle of the year), and why did it rekindled a spark in baseball I haven’t felt for many years?

It started on a Monday where I had no other TV to watch. I stopped, in the midst of frantic guide surfing, on the Home Run Derby. I haven’t watched the Derby in years, but the new format I had heard about caused me to pause when I saw it appear on the guide. Lo and behold, I happened to stop when Robinson Cano came up to bat.

It seemed a small thing when the round started, but Robinson’s father was the BP pitcher tossing lazy fastballs down the middle to a more than eager batter. I watched as Cano belted ball after ball into the stands. Smiling at times. Pausing for effect at others. The whole time I couldn’t help but notice the intensity on the face of the father throwing the pitches.

My own baseball career was inauspicious. A middle infielder, second base to be exact, much too tall to be playing the position, I made up for it in playing my position to the tee and always making the correct play. (Plus the fact that I could make a turn in spite of the fact I was way too tall and my arms too long.) Maybe it was the fact that my own father was my baseball coach through the majority of my little league career that I got to play such a prized position. But I wanted to believe it was skill that kept me in the position, or maybe it was the wishes of a tow-headed boy from the Midwest who wished to be Roy Hobbs. (Before I’d read the novel and had a better understanding of the story.)

The wish to be a great pitcher was brought to as swift an end as Roy’s without the need of a silver bullet. I pitched in one game in my career. I promptly allowed two base runners in as many batters. Always the competitor and hating to lose, I called a time out. The catcher came sprinting up to the mound, and my dad came strolling in from the dugout. On the mound, I said (approximately) “Dad, I can’t make the pitches. We’ll lose if you leave me out here.” My catcher nodded in agreement. My dad simply nodded at my logic and said “You wanted to pitch. Pitch. I won’t take you out til the end of the inning.” It was tough, but I threw enough junk to get some grounders and get out of the inning without any damage. And I never pitched again in my life.

That same tough love washed over me as I watched Jose Cano throw pitch after pitch to his son during the Derby. No smile. No emotion. Round 1 went by and round 2 as well. Only a well practiced eye watching his own misses along with his son’s. Only as the very last ball in the final round crossed the fence did Jose Cano smile at the accomplishment of his son for winning.

All of this brought back a nostalgia for the game. My own adequate, yet never great, performances that helped win three little league and bambino titles in a row. I even remember trying to switch hit one season (on my dad’s recommendation) to try and overcome my tendency to bail out on inside pitches. Somehow that father pitching to his son in the Home Run Derby made a connection.

I felt like maybe now, at 30, I could watch the All Star game with a renewed interest.

The first few innings went by with little excitement. Many first swings on bad pitches just trying to avoid the dreaded All Star strike out. But I couldn’t help jumping in my seat as a Red Sox player (my sworn enemy) hit a home run to take the lead. And I couldn’t help but be equally as crushed when Prince Fielder hit the definitive three run shot to give the National League a 3-1 lead. Why, after so many years of apathy and playoff bandwagonning (is that even a word?), did I suddenly care again about a game that had long since dropped from my radar?

It was that old connection. That draw that has been around since Doubleday, Ruth, Clemente, Rose, Mattingly, Griffey, Jr. and the others. A time honored connection that allows men in America to say “Did you see that hit last night?” Maybe it was spurred on by the Chevy commercial employing the soundtrack from The Natural, and the memory that for a time between age 6-8 that my dad referred to me as Wonder Boy like the eponymous title of Hobbs’ bat. Something happened.

Baseball meant something again. Maybe not what it did watching Gibson hit a home run, or Maddux being masterful, or Rivera playing executioner, but it meant something.

Even in a time where 84 players were named to the All Star team, and the names of those not in attendance topped 90% of those who actually showed up for the game, I cared about the game. I watched the whole thing with a new enthusiasm and wonder. I was invested in the cut-offs and when players decided to run. Pitching changes took on meaning again.

The game ended not in the favor of the team I had hoped would win. But I couldn’t help smiling when Prince Fielder accepted the MVP. His two boys shunning the spotlight and only coming to life when they had a crystal bat to play with.

This game will always be about fathers and sons. A shared experience. A timeless reminder of what is past. It’s an opportunity to reconnect to days gone by and remember the successes, failures, and failures that turned out to be successes. In a week or a month, will I still be watching entire baseball games? I don’t know. I do know that I will remember where I was to watch the 2011 All Star game and the connection it made to my past. Was it the best game ever played? Probably not. But it is what it was.

The Midsummer Classic.