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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

Steve Christilaw: Finally, it’s time for boys of summer

Steve Christilaw

Spring ended at roughly 5 p.m. Sunday.

The first pitch of the first game of the 2015 Major League Baseball season marked the official end of spring training and the start of a new year. To a baseball fan, that means we can heave a deep sigh of relief and get back to living life the way it should be lived – with a box score and a nightly highlight show.

If you tsk-tsk that statement, you don’t understand the scope of baseball.

Yes, baseball is a game. But it’s not JUST a game.

Baseball is a touchstone for its most devoted fans.

Baseball is a thread running through the entire life of a fan – whether that fan is sitting in an easy chair in Millwood or in a box seat behind first base at Fenway Park. It’s a game we’ve grown up watching and loving, sometimes in person, oftentimes on television. We’ve sat in the bleachers with a parent, and if we’re lucky, a grandparent, to watch games.

For many of us, that’s who taught us to keep score. And we’ve long thrilled at the sound of Vin Scully or Dave Niehaus calling a game. Some of us remember parking in front of big, old console television Saturday mornings to watch as Mel Allen told us about “This Week in Baseball” before settling in for “The Game of the Week” with Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek. Or Joe Garagiola. 

Some of us have played the game at one level or another. Those deep-set memories add texture, whether it’s the comforting feel of a ball nestling into a well-oiled glove or that indescribable feel when a bat makes perfect contact with a fastball, sending it sailing over a fence.

It’s a game we played in our backyard, especially those cherished hours playing catch with dad (which is also why many of us leave the room during the last scene of “Field of Dreams.”)

To a baseball fan, new seasons interweave with old. Watching the young bulls play the game sparks memories of players gone by. Watching Mike Trout of the Angels, for example, may spark memories of a young Ken Griffey Jr. patrolling center field. Or if you’re lucky enough and old enough, of Willie Mays.

To quote Tom Hanks in “A League of Their Own,” “There’s no crying in baseball.”

But that’s not true.

For a Cubs fan, watching Sunday night’s tribute to Ernie Banks couldn’t help but bring both a tear and an urge for the home team to say “Let’s play two.”

Those same Cubs fans tear up at the thought of the 1969 Miracle Mets. Because the miracle in question was the Cubs choking down the stretch.

Ask a Red Sox fan about Billy Buckner. Most have forgiven Billy Bucks for that ball bouncing between his legs, but none have forgotten.  Or ask them what Bucky Dent’s middle name is.

Watching the Mariners play on opening day is not just a chance to watch Felix Hernandez, it’s a chance to remember season openers of the past thrown by such stalwarts as Freddie Garcia, Mark Langston and Randy Johnson. It’s the memory of the first-ever Mariners game in the old Kingdome, when Diego Segui lost to Frank Tanana. Or of 1969, when Marty Pattin pitched five strong innings to help the Seattle Pilots win their first game (the team won only 63 more games that season and was moved to Milwaukee the next year).

Baseball’s 162-game regular season is like a life unfolding.

You need a good start and occasionally need to reshuffle the lineup and refigure your rotation, but you begin to get an idea of who you are.

By June you’re making tough decisions based on where you are and how you can get to where you want to be. And by July you’re ready to take a break and show off your very best.

For some, it’s the time to make changes – perhaps mortgaging the future to bet on a single hope of reaching October.

It’s about surviving those Dog Days of August and finding renewed hope and energy in September.

It’s a game that can break your heart, yes. But it also gives you the most incredible memories.

And each year brings the new promise of more memories, both good and bad.

In the immortal words of Yogi Berra, “It’s like déjà vu all over again.”