Written into the script of American history is the game, the institution of baseball. For too long I had forgotten about the great game that is so peculiarly American. I had not been to a major league baseball game since before the 1994 baseball strike. That strike left me feeling as if the players and owners had sucker-punched me. But that old animosity and bitterness faded away with a recent trip to the ballpark which refreshed my memory of baseball's beauty.
The place was Fenway Park this past Friday night. Weather any more perfect would have been impossible. Walking down Yawkey Way toward the park for the first time in my life, I felt butterflies in my stomach. I was finally going to get to see a ball game at Fenway Park, a park which was the subject of so much lore growing up and the site of many a fun computer baseball game. Fenway lived up to its reputation. The park which seemed hardly larger than my local minor league park was everything I had heard and more. The imposing Green Monster, the asymmetric outfield fence, the grimy bathrooms, the Citgo sign, the bleachers, and all the rest solidified the charm of Fenway that so many people have lauded over the years. Obviously the park is not the most fancy nor the most modern of parks in the league. But there is something about seeing a ball game in a park that is rough around the edges. The field is immaculate but the seats, fans, and vendors show that they are real. What you see is what you get. And that is not too bad.
For me on Friday it certainly was not too bad at all. Sitting in a seat that allowed me a perfect vantage of the whole field, I realized the pure joy that the game used to bring me; sitting there I was transported back to much more carefree days. I brought my mitt and awaited the chance for a foul ball. I bought a three-dollar pretzel and a two dollar hot dog and thought nothing of it. I listened to the cries of vendors and the cheers of fans, decrying calls and lauding heroes. I watched buddies from work high-fiving and downing watery brewskies. Behind me a father shared the game with his son. The pure joy was found in these small things: the usher with the Boston accent who bluntly told me and my companions we were in the wrong seats; the vendor tossing his ware to a customer; the excitement of a fan as he caught a foul ball. These made up an experience that was uniquely American and uniquely joyous.
A second part of the day which helped to provide this feeling of joy was the amazing ability of the athletes on the field. How they are able to make the difficult look routine and easy is beyond me. Throughout most of the years I was growing up I played baseball. During my high school days I spent most of my time starting at left bench and found the easiest of ground balls difficult to field. Yet watching the Red Sox and the Blue Jays turn double plays and roping doubles up the middle, I was struck at just how immensely talented they were. They really were men working in the field as I will be in some other field in my future. To see people who are at the top of their field and who love what they are doing, is possibly another of those great joys in life. Their joy is perpetuated in the fans' joy.
In many senses I think baseball can teach us a few things about living. I know it restored some old themes to my thinking. First, I remembered to again find joy in the small things of life. From the Fenway Franks to the grimy bathrooms, I remembered what it was like to savor the little things of life. Sometimes caught in a world of ideas, I forget that joy makes itself known in small and miniscule acts of each day. Secondly, by cultivating this sense of joy, I can keep myself young. To be young is to still take pleasure in the small things, to find joy in those aspects of life that the 'grown-up' world has long written off as passe and infantile. A final lesson was the need to find a field in which I can find the same joy these men were finding on Friday on the Fenway field.
