I went to a really fun dinner party last night.
During the cocktail hour, I was speaking to one of the guys there about baseball. He played a great deal, was recruited for it at Harvard College, and then, was drafted and played in the minors. Unfortunately, he became injured and had to stop playing.
“Do you miss it?” I asked.
“Not at all, except for long-tossing in the outfield,” he said. “It reminded of me of when I played catch with my Dad.” (His father has passed away).
I think baseball is a unique sport. It’s admittedly a long game to watch, but that’s part of the beauty. There’s a rhythm to each game, and you can get to know someone very well when you sit next to them to watch one. Or, when you learn how to throw, catch, hit and pitch from a parent.
In other words, baseball is intertwined with childhood memories.
The other day, for example, I was listening to sports radio during a drive. A man called in to reminisce about Fenway Park, and how he went there one time as a boy with his grandfather. “It is my favorite memory of my grandfather,” he said, at which point, he couldn’t speak further because his voice started to shake.
So, whether the Red Sox win or lose the World Series, I’m already happy, frankly. I want them to win, so those players can get a ring. But, for me, I’m already content. It has been fun to follow such a “do the right thing and play the game right” group of players.
You rock, Red Sox 2013!