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more games are on television, newspapers chock full of baseball news, like who’s winning the batting races and who’s doing cocaine (when playing the game between the lines takes on a whole new meaning) — it becomes easy to get caught up in the groundswell of baseball fever.
I even peruse my weekly copy of The Sporting News more now than in the spring when I ordered my sports bible, as the TV ads so proclaimed.
Maybe the thought of September heroicshas kicked me into baseball-mode, but remembering the days when chucking around the pill was the day’s only concern is an appealing memory.
Honesty, however, destroys such lofty daydreams.
I was never the home-run hitter, nor the graceful outfielder, nor the fireballer. I never won the championship game in the waning moments of the season’s final game, never got the standing ovation movies and television insist exist.
Life ain't Roy Hobbs.
My sports library is limited: a trophy for being bat boy on my father’s championship softball team, a “Coach of the Year” plaque my girls’ softball team bought for me as a joke, a baseball I got for making the Babe Ruth All-Star team. Those are my only shields of honor.
No need to build a showcase here.
But, despite being slow and only an average stick man even on my better days, I could, however, bunt with the best of them. Hey, everybody’s got to be good at something.
They say home-run hitters drive
78.3%