I was going to write about politics, but I got waylaid by this story in the morning papers: Today, pitchers and catchers report to the Detroit Tigers' spring training camp in Lakeland, Florida.
Pitchers and catchers report. That, to me, is the second most beautiful phrase in the English language, right after "Pay to the order of."
Although it's the dead of winter here in Michigan, made worse by the cancellation of hockey season (there's a reason why we call Detroit "Hockeytown"), the opening of training camp marks the beginning of the end of winter. Or, around here, the end of the beginning.
Like second marriages, spring training represents the triumph of hope over experience. That's especially true if you follow the Tigers, whose last winning season came 12 years ago and who lost an astounding 119 games two seasons ago.
I'm a baseball fan, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. An afternoon at the ballpark is one of my guilty pleasures, along with popcorn, NTN trivia, the
Times crossword puzzle, Guinness stout, and posting here.
I grew up in New Jersey and became a Mets fan, thanks to the strict upbringing I received from my National League mother. Being a fan of the underdog, I probably would have chosen the Mets over the Yankees anyhow.
Some 30 years ago, I moved to Michigan and experienced culture shock: strange food like coney dogs and Stroh's beer; the first day of firearms deer season being an unofficial holiday; "party stores"; and not a decent pizza in sight.
But the biggest adjustment involved American League baseball. That meant getting used to (cue up the organ) the designated hitter rule. Eventually, I warmed up to the Tigers, thanks in large part to the soothing voice of announcer Ernie Harwell. He and his partner, Paul Carey, got me through business disputes, cash-flow crunches, and romances gone sour.
In fact, it was Ernie who announced my greatest moment as a baseball fan. It was at Fenway Park on August 25, 1989, and the Tigers were playing a doubleheader there. I was there to make a dream come true--namely, seeing a game in every major league ballpark. While I celebrated--with a Fenway Frank, of course--Ernie not only mentioned my name but pronounced it right and told the audience how hard it was to visit all 26 parks. At least, that's what my wife told me when I got back.
Since then, I've tried to visit all the new parks but they've been building them faster than I can get to them. For the record, there are four on my to-do list: Citizens Bank Park, Philadelphia; Pac Bell Park, San Francisco; Petco Park, San Diego; and RFK Stadium, Washington, D.C. With a little luck, I'll hit them all this season.
Are there any other baseball lovers out there? Who's your favorite team, and how did you come to adopt it? What's your favorite baseball memory? And what's the strangest thing you've seen--or done--at the ballpark?
Inquiring minds want to know.