It is (nearly) spring, and old(er) men’s thoughts turn to baseball, eager to catch the magic once more. And much magic there is.  

All sports have their seasons, their beginnings, middles, and endings that construct a plot arc worthy (at times) of great literature and that can even be pleasingly twisted into metaphors for a human lifetime. The rhythms of a baseball season, though, are special, as they are the rhythms of the seasons, of nature—of life.  

Each baseball season begins in late winter, when muscles, stretching and coming alive once again, rumble in glee and whispers of youthful promise or aging reclamation roll north from Florida and Arizona. Of course, amid the continuing chill of February, these sounds are only faintly heard, like the muffled miracle of tulip and daffodil bulbs awakening from sleep. 

Then, come April, a most wonderful month, baseball blooms full-grown and glorious, in color and vibrant life, reaffirming the faith that we nursed during winter’s windy grayness. Each team’s hopes, like the grass, are fresh and sweet, and if the team loses today, well, there are many tomorrows, with time to make it back. 

Spring turns to summer, and the many shoots that first poked their heads above the ground are revealed as dazzling flower, nourishing vegetable, sweet fruit, or unwelcome weed. In July and August, and the sun bakes the field, the burden of games gone by, of water under the bridge, weighs upon a team, limiting its possibilities just as responsibilities seem to erect towering walls that constrict freedom of action in middle age.  

Come fall, the crisp air crackles with the intensity of playoff games and the World Series, which is concluded now in early November, fittingly when we are all acutely aware of ghosts and demons, for in this time of final elimination, with only one team left standing, wouldas, couldas, and shouldas swarm through the lengthening nights, their banshee voices chilling players and fans to their core. 

In winter, baseball goes into dormancy, as any self-respecting human should, drawing into itself to reflect on the campaign just past, trying to find warmth from memories and the comradeship enjoyed while gathered around a hot stove. 

But it is not merely through its seasonal patterns that baseball enthralls us. Several fundamental features of the game are profoundly satisfying.  

Baseball is not timed and, as a result, reflects the deepest human yearning. At-bats last as long as the batter can stave off defeat; innings can expand or contract as hitters’ or pitchers’ dominance dictates. The players control the game; the clock does not controls the players. A baseball game, then, gives us a heady whiff of immortality. It is possible, just possible, for the game to go on forever, defeating time itself.* 

Baseball exemplifies sportsmanship; it is more fair than any other major team sports. Each side gets an equal chance to win. One team cannot build up a lead and then sit on it, waiting and waiting until the last second before snapping the ball, then taking a knee and refusing to even attempt a play. You cannot foul the other player, preventing him from taking a shot. You have put your lead on the line, giving up the ball and letting the other team take its licks. 

Baseball’s ballet dances on a larger stage than basketball’s gritty hip-hop or football’s intricate square dance. In baseball, subtle actions far from the apparent focal point are nevertheless crucial. Willie Mays, standing 360-odd feet from the plate must, in the instant that Vic Wertz smashes the ball, turn—unseen by fans— and run in order to reach the point 60 or so feet farther back where he can capture the ball. And, while all eyes stare transfixed at him, Larry Doby, confidently rounding second some 300 feet away, must brake, amazed and alarmed, and quickly scramble back toward first, where he arrives too late because Mays has pivoted and thrown to double him off. The choreography of baseball gives vital roles to far-flung dancers, but each step contributes to the dance.  

Baseball is the sport of stories and history. There’s time between pitches to talk of similar situations and how they turned out, to reflect on past greats—or nobodies—whose style or talents or careers the players on the field summon from the depths of time, to speculate on what strategy the pitcher will next attempt and what approach the batter will take. Basketball and hockey games are a blur, the constant stream of action resulting in the broadcaster’s breathless run-on sentences. Football has pauses between plays, but they are filled with replays of the previous action. Baseball allows time for reflection. 

The dynamic of baseball perfectly balances the demands of player and team—of individual and community. Each player must take responsibility for part of the game, and each, naked before the world both in the field and at bat, is unquestionably accountable for his actions. Yet, the players must also act in concert, shortstop and second baseman orchestrating the feed and pivot to execute the first half of a double play, the centerfielder’s reassuring presence behind him allowing the rightfielder to dive for the sinking liner that he just might snare. 

Finally, and here, I think, is the greatest charm of all charms, the gift that keeps on giving:, baseball overflows with moments of infinite possibility. The promise that baseball gives us—the Holy Grail of hope it proffers—is not merely the promise of each new season, each spring. It is the promise of stout Cortez (who was really Balboa) standing on a peak of Darién, facing a new world of new maybes, and that promise is handed to us each and every time a pitcher readies to throw the ball. Football has its snaps, in which players and spectators all stand in excited anticipation of what might be—but only a paltry 120 or so each game. Baseball has hundreds upon hundreds of these open-ended moments—moments of countless possible fictions, rather than one unalterable history—when pitcher, batter, and crowd stand poised on the cusp, the very brink of the conversion from potential to kinetic energy, when they can be captivated by speculation over which pitch the hurler will throw, toward which location, and what response the batter will assay, and where it will travel, if it does travel, and whether his efforts will produce dross or gold.  

And in that richness of possibilities, in that gift of as many maybes as there are stars in the Milky Way, we embrace the wondrous uncertainty of life, and in the heightened awareness these moments coax from us, we experience Consciousness.  

* Non-fan cynics, of course, derisively comment that baseball and endless are synonyms, more indicative of Sisyphean eternal torment than everlasting glory. They, of course, shall receive their just rewards one day!  

Words © 2010 AtHome Pilgrim.

All Rights Reserved.